


Such Deliberate Disguises

by niennavalier



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Dollhouse, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dollhouse Fusion, Angst, Coldflash Big Bang 2016, Doll!Barry, FBI Agent!Len, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, More Characters to be Added too, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niennavalier/pseuds/niennavalier
Summary: The Dollhouse. Everyone in Central City has heard the name; most people assume it’s just a myth, some urban legend. Special Agent Leonard Snart could say he counted himself as one of those people - he'd never had much care for things of that sort. But when a certain picture of a certain boy shows up on his desk, well...it quickly becomes clear that nothing is as it seems.
Coldflash AU Based on Joss Whedon’s TV Series  Dollhouse . Written for the Coldflash Big Bang 2016.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh this was so much fun! Giant thanks to the Coldflash Big Bang Mod over on tumblr for putting this all together, and especially to [ @diamond-skeleton ](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com/) who made [ absolutely gorgeous art for this fic! ](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com/post/151182783656/such-deliberate-disguises-by-niennavalier-the) And thanks to [ @define-insane ](http://define-insane.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this for me, too! You're all amazing and I love you all :)

    “Why would I do that? W-why would I give up five years when I can be looking for my mom’s killer? When I can be getting my dad out of jail?”

    “Tell me, Allen, how far, exactly, have you gotten trying to exonerate your father? As far as I can tell, there hasn’t been any attempt to review your father’s case since he was incarcerated fifteen years ago.”

    “What do you think I’ve been doing? What do you think it is I’m still trying to do?”

    “And what if  I __ told you we could get him out of jail? You claim he’s innocent -”

    “Because he is!” The young man with mussed brown hair stood suddenly, hazel eyes sharp and flashing, expression the most incensed it had been for the entirety of the conversation up until that point.

    To that, the older man raised his hands placatingly, something like sympathy warming his dark eyes. “I never meant to imply that he wasn’t. I brought it up to tell you that, if you agree to work with us, we can give you exactly what you want.”

    “And...what do you mean?” The younger man calmed slightly, sitting back down, almost collapsing, more confused now than indignant. “How? You can’t -”

    “We can. The company has more than enough resources and influence to make something like that happen.” A breath, and his tone changed, softer, more understanding as he leaned forward. “Look, Allen, you’re a good kid, and you’ve had a hard life. You just want your family back, and we can do that for you if you help us. Get your dad out of prison, set you both up off the grid where no one’s gonna come looking for you. No complications at all, I promise.”

    The younger man bit his lip, hesitant. “You can? For real?” He could feel his resolve beginning to crack. Because it was true; the man in front of him was right. Years had gone by, and he’d found nothing, just chasing dead-end after dead-end, not a single piece of evidence that might help him find justice for his dad. And that was only one of the things he’d had weighing down on his shoulders all these years.

    A nod came from the older man. “We can make the nightmares stop, too.”

    “The...how? How did you -?”

    “Psych reports aren’t the hardest things to find. And given what happened to you, I can assure you that I have a team here who would be glad to help you with that.”

    “And they can make me just forget?”

    “If that’s what you want.”

    A heavy sigh came from the younger man as he sunk deeper into the chair. Because he was tired, bone-weary, and desperate.The world had felt like it was crumbling to pieces around him, everything he’d known and wished for just falling apart. His options were running out, and  _ forgetting _ ? To live without the pain of remembering, to start over? To just forget entirely...that wasn’t sounding like too bad a choice anymore. He closed his eyes, rubbing at them. “If I did agree, and I’m not yet...five years?”

    “Would pass by like nothing. Like you went to sleep and woke up again the next morning.”

    “That’s it?” 

    “That’s it.”

    What was there left to do? He did like helping people, had liked doing that for the past year, but when he couldn’t help the one person who needed him the most? When the guilt kept eating at his chest, because the one case he couldn’t solve was the only one that really mattered? When remembering that fact stabbed at his heart more and more, day by day? Well, what other option was there now? There was nothing good meant for him with things the way they were - nothing but bridges burned beyond repair, empty paths and empty promises. No one out there willing to believe him, willing to help him, willing to care about him the same way he cared for them. Things had been hopeless for a long time and maybe, just maybe, this was the first bit of hope he’d seen for a long time. Maybe it was finally a chance for things to get better, to be a different person, unburdened by the pain and suffering of remembering.

    “Captain Singh,” Bartholomew Henry Allen looked back up, a hard sort of resolve in his eye that had been missing for months, “I’ll do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard Snart doesn't know what to make of the package to mysteriously appear on his desk. Or the contents he finds inside. And Kilo just wants to be his best.

    Kilo enjoyed swimming. Dr. Snow said it was good for him, and he wanted to be his best.

    But sometimes? Sometimes he wanted to run. It seemed like so much fun, but then the nice man with the long, dark hair had told him not to. He might hurt someone. Kilo couldn’t let that happen, so he didn’t run.

     Instead, he did everything else that made him happy.

     Sometimes he would sit and read, and sometimes Delta would join him. “What are you reading?” he would ask, and Kilo would tell him. They would sit next to each other and read books together and laugh. He liked Delta. Delta was nice, and he always had a big smile and happy eyes.

     Other times, he would do yoga. Sierra was always there. She was good at yoga, much better than him. Maybe she had practiced more than he had. Maybe he could practice more, too. It would help him be his best.

     And then he would go and find Whiskey. Sometimes they would eat together, or do art. She was nice, too, like Delta was. She was his friend. He liked his friends.

     He didn’t mind waiting for them when they had to get their treatments. They loved their treatments, and Kilo did, too. Sometimes his friends would come back with scratches on their arms or their hands, and Kilo would wonder what had happened, but Dr. Snow would say they were okay, and they were. Sometimes Kilo would wake up and find scratches on himself, too, but the two men who had given him his treatment wouldn’t say anything, and Dr. Snow told him he’d done a good job, so he didn’t think about it.

     Then he would think about running instead. He didn’t run, but he always thought about it. His friends didn’t even know. Secrets were bad, he knew, but it was  _ his _ secret. That he would think about running away from everything, and dream about the same thing, too.

     Except for when he dreamt about other things. Like when he would fall asleep, and he would see flashes of red like lightning. But then he would wake up and things were okay and he would have his treatment and the flashes would go away. Then he would go and find Delta or Sierra or Whiskey when the nice man said he could go.

     Maybe that was what the treatments were for. Maybe they helped him be his best.

* * *

 

    Special Agent Leonard Snart enjoyed a good challenge; it was part of the reason he’d joined the FBI. New cases, new criminals, new tactics - it kept him interested, kept him sharp, on top of his game. On top of a game that was always changing, always new, always exciting enough to keep him intrigued, keep him from getting too complacent.

    He and Mick had made a name for themselves at the Bureau in their years there - the “Rogues”, some people liked to call them, whispering the name as if they weren’t already well aware. Cute, though Mick preferred to just scoff at the name, and neither of them paid much mind to the negative connotations that came with the word. After all, they still had highest success rate at the Central City branch, and one of the highest across the entire Bureau, though the assholes in DC didn’t like to admit that fact. That fact in particular was one to leave the two of them amused, even if there came more than a few occasions when protocol took the backseat to getting the job done, finding the information they needed to do what they had to. Some people resented that, Len was also more than aware, had been reminded a near week ago when Rip had announced that he would be keeping him at the office for the next week - consequences for when their last “unofficial interrogation” had gotten a little more violent than their superior would’ve liked. Maybe that should’ve been concerning, if they were any other two agents, but Len could only assume that the higher-ups saw just how stupid it would be for the Bureau to fire their best two agents, lest they really stepped out of line in ways Len had no plans to. It wasn’t as if he actually wanted chaos to erupt. He enjoyed being the best and knowing it, bending the rules when occasion called for it, having a little fun, but there were certain boundaries he wouldn’t ever let himself cross.

    Yet, it really was a shame things had gotten to be so boring recently. And not only because of Rip’s ridiculous attempt to ground them like misbehaving children,  even though that was definitely grating on his nerves as well.

    He and Mick  _ had _ gotten to the top of their game within the last fifteen years, and while he still loved the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush, well, sometimes it was a shame the criminals they chased couldn’t be a bit smarter. There had been more than a few times when he’d discussed those cases with Mick - timings gone wrong, variables unaccounted for, the way those heists could have been committed more cleanly, without being caught - right in front of their dear Captain, cool and straight-faced while Rip went red.

    Len smirked as he stood from his desk to grab some coffee, recalling one of his and Mick’s more recent debriefings with Rip. Even bored out of his mind and grounded, wishing for something more exciting than profiles of the Darbinyan crime family, it was a slight comfort to know that, if nothing else, irritating Rip would prove harmless fun, and the memories would be forever amusing.

    But even among those wishes of something better, when he returned, the last thing he’d expected was to find an envelope sitting in the middle of his desk where it definitely hadn’t been before. “Mick,” he spoke without turning to the adjacent desk.

    “Yeah, buddy?”

    “You happen to see who left this here?”

    “Left what?”

    “This.” Len held up the envelope, adorned with nothing but his name as the recipient.

    “No. Hunter called me in to make sure we were getting those profiles together. Think he just wants to rub in that we’ve been stuck at the desk the past week.”

    Len only shrugged, and not to Rip’s actions, finding them far too predictable. The Captain was petty, liked to reassert his superiority in the most irritating of ways, as if that might make them more willing to recognize his place in the chain of command. For as amusing as it was that Rip would never learn, Len could really do without the whining. Because now, it figured he’d have no leads on this mail, and he moved to hold it against the light. Not a case file - wrong shape, and they hadn’t called into local police stations requesting information - and not personal correspondence either, seeing as how that wouldn’t have come to the Bureau, and Lisa was the only one who might care to contact him anyway, though letters were far from her style. Not some _ thing _ either; it was definitely a small pile of papers, and nothing else, judging by thickness and weight. So he unhooked the metal clasps, feeling Mick peering over to watch as he slid the contents into his hand.

    Not much of note: a few documents, but nothing he couldn’t have found on his own, photocopied pages he didn’t have the time to sort through at the moment. And a picture.

    The picture was what caught Len’s eye as he set the other pages aside, on top of blueprints Miranda had believed to be a Darbinyan safehouse. The picture was of a boy, college age, maybe. Dark hair, hazel eyes, lanky frame, wide smile. Len narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, curious, but mostly suspicious. Papers didn’t get into the Bureau for no reason. They especially - Len chanced a glance back to where Miranda seemed to be chastising Rip for something, which Len couldn’t help but smirk at - didn’t end up on the desk of a Fed without their superiors knowing about it.

    “Who’s the kid?” Mick asked suddenly, “You met him?”

    “Never seen him.” He flipped over the photo, searching for any other clues and intrigued to find one. A single name written on the back in neat cursive.

_ Bartholomew. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI have about 20k of this story written so far (reached my Big Bang goal yaaaay), so I'll probably post pretty regularly for the next couple weeks til I run out of backlogged fic. Expect...Friday night updates for the next few chapters? That or Saturday morning probably.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week of being grounded by Rip is up as Len and Mick are saddled with the responsibilities of a stake-out, though that's far from the first thing on Len's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note that I forgot to mention when I first started posting this: I'm gonna be playing with POV stuff. Mostly we'll be dealing with Len's POV through a lot of the beginning, and at some point later, that'll equalize between him and Barry (for reason's that will be explained, I swear). But I'm also throwing in some other character's narration every now and again to help push the plot along...you'll see what I mean.

    “I trust you have the information I’ve asked for, gentlemen?”

    Mick just grunted in response as he dropped the requested files onto Rip’s desk. Dealing with their superior was grating on a normal day - a decent number of agents wondered how exactly he’d gotten the position he had, Len having come to assume it was only because of Miranda’s exceptional ability - but to be bossed around like a couple of newbies on the last day of their week suspension was humiliating. Both men were convinced Rip had done that on purpose, as if he could convince them to listen to him.

    Laughable. How long would it take Rip to realize he was one of the last people they would listen to? He was just lucky they were playing nice until they could get their regular assignments back.

    “And this is everything we could find on the men connected to this heist?” Rip thumbed through the four folders as if thinking they were withholding information. Which wouldn’t be unheard of, but the two weren’t stupid enough to jeopardize their earliest chance to get back in the field. Much as he didn’t seem it, Rip  _ was _ their superior, and the higher-ups needed his go for them to do their jobs like normal.

    “Aye, Captain,” Len responded sardonically, smirking at Rip’s glare. Just because he was playing nice didn’t mean there was anything against him riling up the man a little. It was too easy, too hard to resist. He gestured with a nod back at the files, never quite letting that tension drop. “All members of the Darbinyan crime family, or at least these three are,” Len pointed to the men in question, “our fourth guy has other members of the family as his known associates. Brought on for security, hacking - makes sense if our anonymous tip is correct and their target is Mercury Labs.” What Len didn’t mention was the fact that he’d looked into the Labs’ security and schematics, just in case push really came to shove if the heist went down. No need for Rip to know about all that.

    “And what would they want from Mercury Labs?”

    “No way to know,” Mick grunted, the answer too obvious. “Could be one thing, could be a couple. Either way…” He shrugged.

    Len picked up where his partner had left off, “this might be the beginning of a mob war, and the people of Central City will be caught in the crossfire.”

    “Then I guess we’re lucky none of this is likely to happen at all.” In walked Laurel Lance. Len hadn’t worked much with the DA himself, but he had heard of and seen enough to decide she’d earned his respect. Multiple times over. No-nonsense and straightforward and effective. Got the job done and did it right. Not Len’s style, personally, but he had nothing against it, not really. She slid another folder down the desk toward Rip. Police report, from the looks of it. “Your tech guy, he got arrested last night a few blocks away from a bar, Saints and Sinners” - Len smirked - “Aggravated assault. He won’t be involved with this heist any time soon.”

    “Excellent, Ms. Lance. Gentlemen, I do believe we’re quite finished here.”

    Sharing a look, Len and Mick stepped out, the larger man talking first, hopefully unheard by Rip if only for the low grumble of his voice. “He knows the heist’s still gonna go down soon as they find a new guy, right?”

    Len didn’t answer, because they both knew it anyway. In a week or two, he’d be demanding the two of them stake out the safe house and stop the heist. It was only a matter of time before activity got reported at that supposedly abandoned warehouse downtown. But until then, well...Rip would figure it out eventually.

    So the two of them relaxed at their desks, their case load, for the moment, alleviated. It really came as no surprise that that innocent package sitting in the corner of the desk had caught Len’s eye. The damn thing was maddening.

    “You wanna take a look, I’ll tell ya if Hunter’s headed our way.” Len whipped around to glance at his partner, who only shrugged.

    And people thought the man was stupid.

    Len didn’t offer a response, didn’t need to, as he turned back to his desk, reaching for the envelope, am almost foreign sort of excitement buzzing through him. It’d been a long time since he’d had a good challenge, and he really was aching for one.

    For some reason, it felt right that this kid would be the one to give it to him.

    First out came the picture, a young kid at some college, probably - Len would have to look into the background of the picture, figure out just where that was - looking pretty damn happy. It looked like mirth in those eyes, but why would he have been given a picture of some random pretty face? He wanted to chuckle at Lisa’s voice teasing in his head -  _ about time you got laid, Lenny  _ \- because the kid  _ was _ attractive, eyes expressive and pretty.

    Damn it, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking like this. Setting aside the picture, purposefully facedown, he reached for whatever other papers were stashed in there, the things he had glanced at but was yet to fully read through. A few letters - personal correspondence that didn’t tell him much at the moment, not even the name of his informant - and a scan of a page of what looked like a high school yearbook. Finding the kid wasn’t too hard from there, the picture of him not too different from the other he had, just younger and awkward in the way high school pictures tended to be. Len forced himself not to fixate on that image too long, searching instead for a name.

    Bartholomew Allen.

    And that was something to work with.

    He heard Mick scoff from behind him as he opened up Google to search the kid’s name, pointedly ignoring the other man’s reaction. All he needed was an idea of what was going on with the kid, at least to start, and public search engines tended to yield enough information for that initial purpose. Besides, on his own computer, no one at the Bureau would immediately question just what it was he was looking into if he wasn’t explicitly using their resources.

    It was a tried and true method for easy recon. Type in a name, hit enter.

    Nothing.

    Well, not nothing, technically. Plenty of sites regarding the etymology of both the names “Bartholomew” and “Allen”, lists of nicknames for the name “Bartholomew” (Bart, Barton, Batt, Barry), but nothing clearly related to the kid himself. Not a single article, or a picture.

    Len tilted his head to the side, contemplating. Even when people tried to live quiet lives, it was almost impossible to have no existence whatsoever on the internet. It was something even harder now with social media, other people tending to post things about people of interest, even if those people weren’t participating with online personas themselves. Hell, even graduation records were almost invariably kept somewhere online.

    Something more was up here, and it sent a chill down Len’s spine.

    Mick grunted from behind him, and Len shut down his browser full of the results of a fruitless search, schooling his expression into one of boredom just in time for Rip to step out of his office, saying his goodbyes to their DA. Both agents afforded nods in farewell as she passed by, though they didn’t afford Rip the same luxury as he approached.

    “Everything okay, Captain?” Mick asked dryly.

    “Something must be wrong if you’re already coming back to us for help,” Len filled in cooly, though no part of him had any desire to keep interacting with Rip when a much more intriguing mystery was right at his fingertips.

    “Now that the week is up,” Rip glanced at them both purposefully, as if they didn’t get the painfully obvious hint, “I need you both to keep an eye on the safehouse, ensure the heist truly is not happening before we move on.” Len wasn’t sure he should be impressed, or assume the intuition had come from the DA, not from the agent in front of them.

    “Not a problem,” Mick agreed, amenable only so Rip might leave them be, and watching as the man returned to his office before spinning toward Len. “You know he’s not gonna give us too much else on top of this, probably thinks it’s too important. You wanna keep looking into the kid, I got our bases covered.”

    Len nodded gratefully. “Thanks, partner.”

    “Anytime, boss.”

    Safely out of Rip’s line of sight, Len turned back to his desk, flipped over the first photo, looked into the kid’s eyes, so full of life, so full of secrets.

_ Just who are you, Bartholomew Allen? _

* * *

 

    Cisco Ramon loved his job. At least, he loved most parts of it. On one hand, the science! Just working in the Dollhouse’s imprint room and doing things that were decades ahead of anything he’d even studied at Caltech was pretty dope. Like, the Chair, something like that - it shouldn’t even exist at all, and Cisco was pretty damn proud of the fact that it did. And that he got to see people sit in it and come out of it and the whole thing looked like it came straight out of Star Trek. 

    Cause, real life Star Trek? That’d been Cisco’s dream since, like, forever. And now that it was happening and he got to be in the middle of it all? Pretty freaking awesome.

    Just, the contributions to science! The things they were learning here were sick: about the brain, the body, mechanics, everything. Even if they couldn’t tell the public yet about what they were doing. Besides, there were some new ideas Cisco  was totally looking forward to trying out the next time they got a good engagement in and -

    “Cisco!”

    The engineer groaned, not bothering to sit up from the couch. Enter the part of the job he hated, better known as Hartley Rathaway. Stupid, stuck-up, pretentious dick loved bossing Cisco around like he was better than him, but  _ who was it that designed the Chair, huh, Hartley? _

    That’s right, this guy right here, laying on the couch. He did it. Hartley could suck it.

    “What!” he answered instead of ranting.

    “Kilo’s about to be on his way up.”

    “Oh, thanks for telling me what I already know.” It was an actual miracle Cisco didn’t roll his eyes. Or, wait, nevermind. He did.

    “Could’ve fooled me.”

    Cisco scowled, his prior good mood effectively killed now as he finally looked up to find Hartley leaning against the railing overlooking the rest of the Dollhouse. “Guess you’re not as smart as you think.”

    “Then you’re more stupid than I thought you were. Impressive.” That stupidly smug face was out of sight eventually - but not soon enough - and Cisco huffed, trying to calm down, which was never easy after having to deal with Hartley, which always happened far too often. At least it helped, seeing Kilo being led across the room, escorted by his handler, Wells, not a care in the world to trouble his hazel eyes. It was hard to be angry after seeing that.

    The dolls were like, very large children. Who he could make into not children, and then back again with a push of a button. It was like the plot of some weird 2000’s sci-fi TV show.

    Not that Cisco was complaining or anything, though. Cause he so wasn’t. At least, not about the sci-fi show part. The Hartley part, he could complain forever.

    He shot up from the couch, walking into the imprinting room, pointedly ignoring Hartley dialling in the right frequency for the imprint to take hold. Just as he straightened, in walked the people they were waiting for.

    “Hey, Kilo, are you ready for your treatment?” The line was rehearsed, easy in Cisco’s head. Made it seem even more like some weird, trippy movie.

    “I love my treatments.” That, too, actually. When had his life turned into a movie? How totally cool was that?

    Still, Cisco kept a handle on his expression, just letting his lips twist a little into an amused smile before gesturing at the Chair, Kilo sitting down, hands rubbing against the smooth face of the armrests, as he himself moved to stand by the console, activating the Chair and watching it recline. “This might sting a little.”

    Then there was that blue light that made all the magic happen.

    And just thirty seconds later, the lights shut off, and the Chair moved forward, back into a sitting position as Cisco made to stand in front of the new man before him, a master hacker dressed in Dollhouse issue t-shirt and sweats.

__  He grinned. He’d been waiting to use this line for a while. “Hello Sam, here’s your mission, should you choose to accept it…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Cisco is a giant nerd. So am I. Actually, might be a good place to say, I tend to drop references to stuff in everywhere. Sometimes other general nerd crap, other TV shows, and occasionally I'll reference other fics, too. Fun facts :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stake-out happens, the heist is stopped. But there's another variable amidst everything that no one was really expecting.

    “You figure anything out with the kid yet?”

    Len glared at his partner. Mick rarely made idle chit-chat, not during stakeouts. They’d been partners long enough to know each others’ needs like the back of their hands. For all his hot-headedness, the other man understood Len’s like of the quiet, to think, and rarely went so far as the breach that, unless it was for a good reason.

    So he answered honestly. “Not yet.”

    Mick grunted in response. For all they’d been kept busy with this particular case, and the inevitable addition of some new crew member to the heist - which had necessitated the stakeout - he knew more than anyone that Len had spend their lighter load the past couple days to case the kid. School, phone, dental, even criminal records. Social Security, insurance, a number of searches across every available platform of the name “Bartholomew Henry Allen”. Facial recognition on the picture, charmed out of another agent to keep it off the books. Nothing. Like the kid didn’t exist, aside from that picture. “You’re worried about ‘im.”

    “I’d be worried about anyone who was erased that thoroughly.” Because there were a number of reasons why something - or someone - might go to those lengths, none of them exactly savory.

    “And you’re pissed at Hunter for putting us on stakeout duty tonight.” It wasn’t a question.

    Because it was the truth. “Part of the job.”

    “You wanna go look into him more, you can go. I can handle these punks.”

    Len held back a laugh. Only Mick would refer to a group of gang members trying to steal military-grade tech as punks. “Not gonna leave, Mick.”

    “If you say so, boss.”

    The silence resumed, and Len relaxed a fraction, went back to watching the warehouse and pushing the thoughts of the kid from his mind. A known safehouse of the Darbinyan crime family. They couldn’t make out much more than the shadows against the dim lights through the windows, but could assume they belonged to four bodies - three members of the family, and the mystery crew member spotted entering the building only hours earlier. Presumably the new tech specialist needed to break security firewalls at Mercury Labs, much more highly advanced than those at STAR Labs; Len and Mick had been tasked with investigating after the explosion a few years back, more or less just walking through the front door to do so. Which was concerning, to say the least. It was still just a miracle nothing had ever been reported stolen, even if the facility was mostly shut down.

    Minutes passed before those four figures stepped out, through the shadows and into two cars, heading in the direction of Mercury Labs.

    “Mick.”

    “On it.”

    They didn’t tail them - too obvious, even more so at night when the roads were empty - but they knew these streets, could beat them to the Labs by a few minutes, get in a position to stop the heist before it happened. Ditching the car a few blocks away and alerting Rip for backup, they set themselves up near the side entrance to the building; there was no way for them to be privy to those plans to know where the crew would be entering from, but it  _ was _ the most logical, if Len were to be planning the heist himself. Fewer lights, more cover, less possibility for being spotted by late-night commuters, compared to both the front door and the back loading bay. And less cameras, all the more helpful when it came to the comparatively light night security. Given the schematics of the building, it made the most sense for a B&E, if the Darbinyans sent someone even halfway decent at being a criminal.

    Fortunately for their dignity, the four did show at the side door, one of the taller - and definitely the lankiest - of the four setting to work on the keypad blocking the entrance. Definitely their new tech, even if there wasn’t much more Len could tell by glancing around the corner. Except that if they waited any longer, they might lose their chance to stop this heist easy. Once they were inside, neither Len nor Mick nor anyone at the Bureau knew what these men would be looking for, and even if they did, Len wasn’t about to risk an altercation inside Mercury Labs. This city had already been through the tragedy surrounding an accident at one research lab, and Len sure as hell wasn’t about to risk another. As for where they might exit after the heist, Len couldn’t be as sure how the crew might respond to whatever challenges they would face inside to guess at how they would ultimately decide to escape.

    This was when they would all have the most control over the situation, and Len wasn’t about to give that up.

    But where was Rip’s damn backup?

    Len shot a glance over at Mick, and his partner nodded in understanding.

    “Hey!” Mick stepped out from behind the corner, gun raised, Len doing the same. “FBI! Hands up!”

    All four turned with a jump, clearly stunned, though none of them moved.

    “I’d suggest doing as he says,” Len drawled, stepping forward, gun held out in front of him, “and no one gets hurt.”

    A shot, coming from the guy most in the back. They were lucky for the distance, neither Len nor Mick hit as they dodged to the side. But unfortunately for the idiot with the gun, Len was a much better shot, hitting the bastard in the back of the leg as all of them ran. Served him right for even trying. But the other three were off, two in one direction and one in the other, the Darbinyans not giving so much as a shit for the guy who wasn’t part of their normal crew. It would’ve made Len’s lips twist in disgust if he wasn’t busy chasing after the tech guy, Mick headed off for the other two.

    But damn, he was fast; Len hadn’t thought those long limbs could move so quickly. There was no way Len could catch up like this - it just wasn’t possible, and he was no slouch - and he couldn’t exactly outsmart him either when he wasn’t running  _ to _ anywhere anymore. Or, at least couldn’t outsmart him in the conventional sense, taking alternate paths, cutting him off. It was a good thing Len had more weapons than just that in his arsenal. Literally.

    He drew his gun as the chase led him down a back alley, and fired. The lanky form tumbled to the ground in front of him, surprised, turning to his back and trying to crawl away as Len approached, eyes wide with fear, but not pain. He hadn’t been hit, because Len hadn’t aimed to hurt, though the brick wall sported a new gouge in its surface. The guy - kid, more likely, looking at the brightness of those eyes - wasn’t a Darbinyan, probably didn’t owe them any loyalty. Might be an asset, could be more cooperative with a Fed who hadn’t shot him, though that wasn’t out of the question yet, depending on how this went.

    Grabbing the kid by the arm was suddenly far less of an issue, impeded only by Len’s heavy breaths, and he yanked him up, a quick search turning up nothing - no weapons, nothing that outwardly seemed to tie into whatever larger plan was afoot. Then he tore the mask off, stepped back, gun still raised. 

    And it took a hell of a lot of willpower to not let the shock show too visibly on his face, even if his breath did catch in his throat.

    “Bartholomew?”

    The kid’s face - and he really  _ was _ just a kid, barely looked any older than he had in that photograph - twisted in confusion. “Who the hell’s that? Name’s Sam. I ain’t no Bartholomew,” he tried to spit, but that face, those bright eyes, weren’t made for a harsh tone like that. Nothing about him should’ve been made for anything like this. Just some kid fresh out of college who didn’t know what he’d got caught up in.

    “Look, kid, whatever it is they want you to do, drop the act. You don’t have to do whatever they say.” Len lowered his gun, part a show of good faith, but part because some ridiculous side of him really didn’t want to hurt this kid.

    A gust of wind blew through the alley and the look that crossed Bartholomew’s - Sam’s, whatever - face was far from what Len had been expecting. Not indignant because he wasn’t being forced into anything, not scared about either the Fed in front of him or the crime family behind. Just...blank. Nothing.

    A chill ran up Len’s spine.

    “Kid -”

    And before he could even think about reacting, he was crashing to the floor, legs somehow swept out from under him. Len didn’t have the time to scramble back to his feet, just barely rolling out of the way of the kick aimed at his stomach and using the momentum to regain his footing, managing to keep a firm hold on his gun. Almost immediately, he had to lean back to dodge a flying fist, barely saving himself as he back up a few paces, turned ninety degrees to keep his back away from the wall. Could see the kid’s eyes again, not blank anymore, not even angry like he’d been as Sam, but just hard, empty, cold.

    Wrong in every way something could be wrong. It made him hesitate.

    And that moment of hesitation cost him. Left him unprepared for the impressive kick to his ribcage that made it hard to catch his breath. Still, he’d had worse, was able to block the incoming left hook, catching it with his arm as he aimed his own blow. Only for it to be his forearm caught this time. He felt himself being spun, caught in a tight hold against the kid’s chest, one arm stuck behind his back, the other being held across his neck, his gun at a useless angle now, even if he had been planning to use it. He struggled against the hold. Couldn’t get free of that lanky form that hid a lot more power than Len could have guessed. Felt himself pushed forward, slammed into the brick wall, right arm plastered above his head, the wind knocked out of him. Coughing and trying to catch his breath, it was impossible for Len not to feel the increasing heat at his back, the incredible proximity between their bodies. Hot breath danced upon the skin at the back of his neck as one of those hands slid up the rest of his arm - moving far too slowly - to pluck the gun from Len’s grip with slender, dextrous fingers.

    “So now what? You gonna sell me out to your little friends back there?” Len gasped, working to put as much ire into his words as he could. It was easier to think about that - about the physical dangers to come - rather than the...other dangers, the line he could feel them toeing.

    “I’m not.” Hypersensitive, Len could feel the movement behind him, could feel the kid lean even closer. The next words, low and whispered by lips right at his ear, sent a shudder through him that he couldn’t possibly control. “Looks like you lost this round. ‘Til next time.”

    Mind spinning, Len couldn’t answer, just got a much harder shove to the right than he had expected to come from both that lean frame, and that charged moment. Thrown into the side of a dumpster, he caught onto its edge and hung on, hunched over and coughing before turning around. And he wanted to yell back the kid’s name again, but resisted, some deep part of himself knowing there wouldn’t be any answer. 

    Still, he let his mind replay the encounter. The kid’s face, so like that picture, so definitely him, but apparently not. Not a trace of recognition in those eyes Len knew were hazel even if he couldn’t see them just then.

    But also...That low voice, the hot breath, the slow friction of one hand sliding up his arm. Those words that sounded so much like a seduction, that left him feeling charged despite it all.

    Except...no. No. Len squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head to clear it. He couldn’t let himself get distracted; that wasn’t who he was. He wouldn’t let whatever had just happened get in the way of him seeing the bigger picture, even if he was sure that whispered phrase would echo in his head for the next week, chase him into his dreams. That wasn’t what was important here; he couldn’t let it be.

    He slumped to the floor, leaned up against the dumpster, the pain blossoming in his arms, ribs, grounding him back in the present as he opened his eyes in time to see a black van pull up, Bartholomew walking inside before it took off. The sight twisted something in Len’s gut, effectively killing, for the moment, the other thoughts still swirling through his head. Whatever was going on, whatever this kid was involved in, it was much bigger than heists, stolen identities, crime families, anything. There was a lot more going on here than Len could have expected, and there was only one thing he could really be certain of.

    Bartholomew Allen would prove to be a problem for him. In more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahhhh I got a confession. That seduction scene-ish thing was not in the original plan at all. Apparently Barry and Len (but...mostly Barry?) wanted it to happen. Which is annoying because this just screwed with the rest of my backlogged fic. Oh these boys...
> 
> Also I hope that scene was even halfway decent? Two things I don't feel confident at with writing: fight scenes, and anything vaguely resembling seduction or sex.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len follows the trail leading back toward the heart of the mystery and learns more about Bartholomew Allen along the way. It's a dangerous path he's walking, but not for the reasons he'd originally assumed.

    “That lanky kid? You tellin’ me he beat you up?”

    Len groaned as he lowered himself onto his couch. While he could admit he’d never gotten to the places he had by being able to beat the shit out of people, getting found, bruised and beaten by Mick was definitely not one of his most shining moments. Admitting it normally topped that list of embarrassing scenarios Len would rather forget, but when there was some type of super-assassin level fighting involved, he didn’t mind. As much. “Yeah, he did.”

    “You goin’ soft, Snart?”

    He chuckled, then winced. His ribs definitely did not like him. “You ever tried to one-up an assassin?” Len glanced up as his friend joined him on the couch, beers in hand.

    Mick’s eyebrows rose. “Assassin?”

    A nod. Maybe it was a bit of a stretch, though the skill to aim a kick like that...that wasn’t something someone learned from basic combat lessons.

    “Like Black Widow?”

    Damn Lisa for making them all watch those movies. “Yes.”

    “Thought the kid was a tech geek.”

    “So did I.” Len leaned back into the cushions with a sigh, closed his eyes against the growing confusion in his head.

    There was a beat of silence, and Len braced himself for the questions he knew were coming. “There’s something you’re not tellin’ me.” Oh, if only Mick had any clue just what Len wasn’t telling him.

    “You sure about that?”

    “Can practically hear all the cogs turning in your head up there.”

    Len hummed, noncommittal, then relented. For anyone else, his sister included, he wouldn’t have. But Mick was bullheaded enough to not let the subject drop for something like this, had no patience for the Snarts’ way of avoidance. “It was him.” There were other things besides, though Mick needn’t know about that.

    “Who?”

    “Bartholomew Allen, the kid from the photo.”

    Mick’s eyes actually widened for a second. “No shit.” Len didn’t answer, let his lack of one tell Mick just what was going on. “You sure it was him?”

    Len leveled a glare at the man. “Positive.”

    He felt Mick lean back on the couch. “Kid with no identity turns up working with the Darbinyans. Weird shit.”

    “Understatement.”

    “Somethin’ else, Lenny?”

    Len was too tired to rebuke his partner for the use of the nickname, just a little too preoccupied with the  _ other _ something else on his mind. The one Mick sure as hell wasn’t gonna know about. “Kid didn’t even know his name.”

    “The hell you mean?”

    “No clue. No recognition. Said his name was Sam.”

    “Sam.” Mick spoke with no inflection to his tone.

    “Yup.”

    “Kid’s lying to you, Snart.”

    “He’s not.” Len shook his head. Something had convinced him of that, though just what it was, he couldn’t be entirely certain. Just a feeling.

    “You figured that how?”

    “He just wasn’t.”

    “Could’ve been lying, easy. Never know who’s good at lying. Pretty face don’t make it any different. Should know that, Snart.”

    Len couldn’t be sure if Mick was referencing the other cases they’d worked over the years, the number of “pretty faces” who’d come into their offices for questioning, something much more dangerous hiding behind an innocent looking visage. Or Len’s own past which he made a point never to dwell on. Either way, it did nothing to weaken his resolve. Even if the kid  _ was _ a pretty face. A pretty everything, actually.

    He was being ridiculous. Especially because, actually, he did have his reasons. Mick hadn’t seen the way the kid had just changed on a dime back there. From indignant tech guy to trained fighter to...something tantalizingly seductive that he couldn’t get out of his head.

    “I do know that. You know how Lisa is,” Len deflected instead, putting on a smirk.

    “I do, yeah. And I know she’d kill you for making comments. Don’t wanna go pissing off your sister the mayor.”

    That got an actual laugh out of Len. His baby sister made for an interesting combination of terrifying and admirable as the Mayor of Central City. He was proud, though he’d never admit that to her face. “Not a good idea to piss off any of us.”

    Mick chuckled at that, but Len knew it was too much to hope for the man to derail the train of thought so easily. “So maybe you should tell me about the kid. ‘Less you wanna be the one pissing me off.”

    And while Len knew he was capable of getting Mick’s temper under control, there had also been a number of incidents in their younger years that had ended with more black eyes than Len would ever admit to. “Like I said, kid didn’t know who he was. Really thought his name was Sam.”

    “Any clue why?” If Len had a clue, he wouldn’t be sitting there, doing nothing. “Think it was the Darbinyans?”

    Len shook his head at that. The Darbinyans were powerful, but they’d never been top dog in the city. That honor had belonged to the Santinis for years, and it was the reason Len imagined that they would’ve planned to steal from Mercury Labs. “Don’t have the manpower for something this clean.”

    “You gone through all the stuff they sent you?”

    Len’s informant who had since slipped another package into the Bureau the other day. “Records don’t match the system. Be hard-pressed to say they’re forged.”

    “But the picture.” Len sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose to fend off a headache. But the picture, indeed. “And the other stuff?”

    “Letters, emails, mostly.”

    “Might be worth reading ‘em. Can case the kid that way.”

    Len eyed the newer of the packages as Mick stood, saying he’d head back to tell Rip about the foiled heist. And with his partner out of the apartment, Len sat forward, grabbing the beer Mick had brought in for him earlier in one hand and sliding the thick envelope toward himself with the other. The alcohol slowly taking the edge off from the night, Len began to read. Research, procedure, facts - those made sense, were things Len could deal with a lot easier than...everything else. Hell of a lot safer, too. He let himself get lost there, in the usual, the expected, rather than indulge in impossible fantasies.

    His informant, he could guess, was female, judging by the handwriting of the few letters he’d been supplied. Someone fairly close to the kid - friend, probably, but not a romantic partner, and why did that unclench some knot in Len’s chest? He downed the beer, ignoring the feeling. 

    Friends, but only for so long, a quick scan of dates bringing the last one up to 2012 - four years old. And as Len kept reading, he saw nothing in there that seemed to indicate anything being wrong, save more sporadic emails in a given amount of time near the end, but that was no reason in itself. Kid was a nerd, though, emails back and forth about entertainment, gushing over the Marvel movies - Len smirked at the thought of the kid meeting his younger sister - and the Star Trek reboot, comparing it to the originals, which had Len grinning. Nice to see Millennials who could appreciate the classics.

   Real-life science nerd, too. All too clear excitement over finding the Higgs Boson and what that might mean for the future of physics. Similar reaction to the completion of the particle accelerator at STAR Labs, even if that still twisted Len’s gut at knowing just how that had all turned out. And numerous references to chemistry which, frankly, went over Len’s head.

    Len had been right before about personal correspondence not yielding much concrete help. Occupation, age, nothing to give him much direction when it came to unlocking the mystery surrounding the kid in the photo. But Mick had been right, too, about casing the kid. Because the more Len read, and kept reading, the more he found himself liking him, for reasons that had nothing to do with charged, electric touches. Just an excitable, good-to-honest kid with a strong love of all things science, fantasy, and urban myth. Nothing that matched the picture of a tech guy turned super-assassin that Len had laid eyes on that night. Just some kid who’d gotten himself involved in something much bigger than himself. Len was growing more and more certain of that, even if just  _ what _ the kid had gotten himself involved in was a much different question.

* * *

 

    Len barely managed not to noticeably groan as he sat in front of his desk at headquarters the next morning. His limbs had grown sore overnight, complements of the beating he’d had to take, missing the days when something like that could be brushed off by the next morning. Nobody seemed to notice his discomfort, Mick, for his part, just grunting a rough “looks like that hurt” which Len chose not to respond to. He didn’t need to add insult to injury, frustrated enough by the lack of further results he could find the night before.

    Reading through the rest of the emails hadn’t revealed much more than the conclusions which Len had already drawn, just generally a fruitless search for scraps of information that weren’t to be found in something of such a personal nature. The kid, Barry (how exactly Len had decided that the kid didn’t look like a “Bartholomew”, he didn’t quite remember, but his brain still seemed to hold onto that; he could justify it as the name being too long, though he was hell-bent on making sure no one found out something so ridiculous had happened), didn’t seem to have anyone else close to him. A few asides made regarding coworkers, but not much beyond that. No mentions of family, other friends, anything, with the exception of Len’s informant. It was one of the few things to stand out.

    Turning his monitor away from the glass walls of Rip’s office, toward the doors instead, he resumed his search, not for the kid, but instead for anyone who might be Barry’s - Len cringed at his own stupidity - family. Unsurprisingly, the search of the Bureau’s database turned up thousands of results across the state, quite a few just in Central alone; “Allen” wasn’t exactly an uncommon name. Filtered through the search, looking for anything of interest; just because mystery surrounded Barry didn’t mean his family history had to hold clues, but it was a possibility. 

    Well, he guessed the results were no coincidence.

    Henry Allen, in Iron Heights for life, convicted of murdering his wife, Nora Allen, fifteen years ago. No listed children, but even if Barry was the man’s kid, Len wasn’t expecting to find his name attached, regardless, if the entity behind all of this was as good at cleaning up their tracks as they had been thus far. And Len didn’t know of any way to figure it out himself because, while Len had heard the news when it first happened, it hadn’t been in their jurisdiction. He himself had had nothing to do with the case, had only heard of it on the news like anyone else. After this many years, he didn’t remember if there’d been any mention of a kid - most likely no one else really would either. Looking at the picture though, at Henry Allen, he could see enough resemblance to buy it. Even if there was no proof of that, all records of Barry gone, all digitized files of news reports making no reference to a child, and any hard copies of reports probably easily stolen - unsurprising for a cold case - by whatever or whoever was behind this, Len was sure this meant...something. It had to.

    But he couldn’t see any connection. Even if Henry Allen was Barry’s father, what did him being put in prison over a decade ago have to do with what seemed to be a much more recent disappearance?

    Somehow, it felt like he’d both taken a step forward, and gotten absolutely nowhere at all. It was intensely frustrating.

    Without any more information on Barry himself, there wasn’t much he could do on this front at the moment - he’d exhausted most of his own resources, and had to recognize that, hoped pieces would start falling together at some point. Though he did make a mental note to take a trip down to Iron Heights to talk to the former doctor before he closed down the page.

    Connections - there had to be some, and Len would find them.

    Perhaps if he focused on the circumstances rather than the person. No two cases were ever exactly the same - Len knew that to be true, even in cases of the more theatrical of serial killers - but the effectiveness of erasing someone so wholly felt all too practiced. There wouldn’t be any missing persons reports, Len could guess if he did happen upon any similar stories, but the wide-reaching nature of the internet meant it wasn’t difficult to hear what the people had to say. Most of the time, it was annoying - desperate nobodies looking for attention in any way possible, resorting to outlandish claims - but he’d also discovered that, on occasion, something so simple as grainy cell phone footage of an event might yield something that a formal investigation hadn’t stumbled upon. Sifting through the metaphorical muck tended to make finding those gems difficult, but not impossible. A little diligence meant handful of similar circumstances arose, often through social media - a number of people worried about loved ones, not unlike his mystery informant, he could only guess. Around twenty people in the last five years in Central itself reported missing - there one day and gone the next, their loved ones told by the police that they were away on vacation or business for a while, which only convinced Len not to go looking for help from the CCPD. Names and faces, too, of the people missing, which Len scrolled through, not a single one familiar or seemingly related to one another, yet somehow connected through some impossible way -

    “Agent Rory. Agent Snart.”

    Len spun around, minimizing the page as he did so and nodding at the woman who had approached. “DA Lance, pleasure to see you again.”

    “Likewise,” she smiled tightly. “I heard you two were sent to stakeout the heist?”

    “We were, and the heist didn’t go down, though there were some...complications.”

    “Complications?”

    “Nothing catastrophic, I assure you.” Len was pretty sure he’d never wanted something to be true quite so badly. If only losing the tech guy  _ had _ been the singular complication.

    “You wanna know what’s happening next, ask Hunter,” the other man added gruffly. Mick rarely conceded authority to Rip, but any more work on their own agenda couldn’t be done with the DA around, and it was only a matter of time before Rip would assign them a new case. Their time was definitely limited. So Len was thankful for his partner as the DA nodded at them in polite thanks, though he guessed that she had already been heading that way anyway, ready with documents regarding the Darbinyans in the briefcase she carried. As soon as she was out of range, Mick turned to Len. “They’re gonna want to talk to us.”

    “I’m aware.”

    “Not gonna be fun, the DA on our asses.”

    “Not my concern.”

    Mick grinned at that. “You’re gettin’ obsessed, Snart. What is it with this kid?”

    Len didn’t answer, let Mick fill in those gaps on his own. Very few knew enough about Leonard Snart’s history to do that, to know why he did what he did, but Mick was one of those few. He knew Len’s reasons, the reasons he couldn’t leave this alone.

    At least, the reasons that didn’t include the feeling of that lean body pressed against him, the gentle friction of skin-on-skin contact, the tease of lips so very close to his neck…

    Len blinked those thoughts away, shoving them away into a box and hoping they would stay there. He had to get a hold of himself.

    There wasn’t much time before Rip would be calling them in, and Len intended to use that time taking names - there would be no files on these apparent missing persons, but familial ties might prove important, Len figured, the pictures of Barry and Henry Allen branded into his mind.

    Ray Palmer, Jefferson Jackson, Felicity Smoak, Kendra Saunders…

    “Agent Snart. My office.” Len glanced up, meeting Rip’s eye as Laurel Lance left the room, a much shorter meeting than Len had anticipated. He stood, and Mick followed suit, only for Rip to make a gesture with his hands. “Only you.”

    Len narrowed his eyes minutely, skeptical, and shared a look with Mick as the other man sat down, glaring more obviously. But for once, Rip wasn’t giving in, and Len couldn’t see any harm in being the only one Rip wanted to talk to. Even if the man was playing with fire by cutting Mick out.

    “Look, Captain,” Len drawled, sauntering into the office, “if this is about last night -”

    “I can assure you, it’s not.” Len tilted his head this time, more intrigued. At the very least, he’d expected some sort of tirade about them letting the tech guy get away, of all people, because that’s how Rip was. Ridiculously, inanely insistent on his team following his rules to the letter, without screwing up a single thing, even if he himself was loathe to admit to his own faults. So Len waited, patient, as Rip slid over a case file. “While I can promise you we  _ will  _ discuss that, Ms. Lance requested I give you this, specifically.”

    “What is it?” Len’s fingers were poised over the manila paper.

    “Something she said might be of a great interest to both you and her.”

* * *

 

    Kilo enjoyed his treatments, he knew he did. They were supposed to make him be his best. Dr. Snow told him that everything they did there was to make him feel better.

    He felt good. He liked going to talk with Delta and look at books. He liked doing yoga with Sierra. He liked doing art with Whiskey. He liked when they all ate together and then went to sleep in their room and got to see each other again in the morning.

    But sometimes, after a while, Kilo would wonder things, too. Sometimes he would wonder why the two men in the treatment room never looked at each other. Sometimes he would wonder why Dr. Snow sometimes looked like there was sadness in her eyes. Sometimes he would wonder why the people in the suits never stayed with them when they went to bed.

    He didn’t ask anymore, because none of them seemed to like it. It made them upset. Kilo didn’t want to make them upset. So he was okay with wondering. His friends didn’t wonder like him, so he guessed all those things were okay. Maybe he didn’t need to wonder. If they didn’t wonder, maybe he wouldn’t either. He thought it was the treatments that helped with that. His treatments would help.

    But he didn’t know when his next treatment was. They didn’t like to tell him. So when he went to sleep that night, he wondered something else instead.

    Who was the man with the blue eyes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, the boys are getting fixated on each other, even if they don't know why. Gonna be a fun ride ahead. Comments would be lovely! (Especially if I'm doing UST even remotely right after chapter 4 - never done anything leaning that way so...yeah, let me know!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len and Mick are send to interrogate a kid who seems to have information they need. Kilo just wants to know who the man in his head is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much interaction or much between Len and Barry this chapter, but Len's still gotta figure stuff out. So have a totally shameless cameo in this chapter (which you all have my little bro to thank for).

    The ride to interrogate the kid was quiet. Not uncomfortably so, but quiet nonetheless. It wasn’t exactly unusual in any way, but Len could admit to him and Mick exchanging barbs about Rip during these times. Generally, it was amusing enough, if redundant - for all of his mistakes, they could all be traced back to a general lack of competence and an excessive need to prove he was in charge. But today wasn’t one of those days, Mick fully understanding when his partner just needed to think; it was one of the underappreciated qualities about Mick Rory which Len had discovered early on - he could read people. It was the reason why Mick was in the car driving, even after Rip had technically only assigned Len to the case, looking about to throw some sort of fit as the two of them left together anyway.

    Rip obviously knew something, even if not everything. Most likely the DA had seen something when she’d passed by their desks earlier that morning. Len couldn’t be sure just how much Rip knew because of her, but it was clear enough that he’d let Len take this case with essentially no hesitation, at least that Len had seen. Just enough info from the DA to be accepting of her request, though not enough to realise Mick had already been in the know. Then again, no way Laurel Lance could’ve been able to tell that much, despite how smart the woman was.

    Len supposed he could be at least somewhat grateful to Rip for clearing his docket for this. Maybe Rip was a little more understanding than they’d all given him credit for.

    The thought almost made him laugh. Those were definitely words that wouldn’t be coming out of Len’s mouth anytime soon.

    They pulled to a stop in front of one of the larger mansions on the outskirts of Keystone. “This the place?” Mick asked.

    “It is.” Len stepped out of the car, Mick following suit.

    “I hate talking to rich emo punks,” Mick remarked under his breath, to which Len grimaced. He didn’t disagree with his partner, but if the reports given to them by the DA were correct, this kid could have information they needed. At the very least, Len figured he could stomach it all long enough to find out just what they needed, preferably quickly.

    The front door opened after a single ring, revealing a delicately built, pleasant looking older woman, clearly wealthy and well-off. “Mrs. O’Ron,” Len put on his most charming voice, pleased to see it had alleviated the hesitation in the woman’s eyes, “I’m Special Agent Leonard Snart and this is my partner, Special Agent Mick Rory.” Her eyes flicked up in momentary fear at the sight of the larger man, but dissipated quickly, likely due to the ridiculous grin Mick could sport, the one which - Len would never admit out loud - gave his partner the look of an overgrown teddy bear. He pressed on, “We were hoping we might be able to speak to your son.”

    Concern immediately flashed through her eyes. “Kyle? Is he in trouble?”

    “No, ma’am. We were just hoping he might know something about an incident around a week ago. Nothing to worry about.”

    “Oh, well, alright then,” she sighed, letting the two men in. “He’s in his room. Up the stairs, down the hall, and to your right. Although I apologize if he’s being a tad,” she paused, “uncooperative.”

    “Thanks,” Mick grunted and Len nodded cordially, both of them heading up the stairs, neither taking the time to look around until they approached the kid’s room. Mick took the lead, banging a fist on the door. “Hey, kid, you care we come in?”

    There was a muffled “Fine”, and Len and Mick sauntered in. “You’re Feds?”

    Mick looked ready to bolt; Len couldn’t blame him. “Rich emo kid” was probably the most apt description Mick had ever come up with, intentional or not. Walls covered with posters Len didn’t bother trying to recognize - though he did notice what seemed to be an alarmingly unhealthy obsession with Darth Vader. He chose not to question just what the meaning behind that was. Didn’t know, really didn’t care. Then there was the kid himself, Kyle O’Ron - long, greasy dark hair, dressed in what Len wanted to hesitate to call a black cloak. Maybe this wouldn’t be so easy to stomach after all.

    The kid better know something, or Len would not hesitate to break Rip’s nose for sending them to this place. He was sure Mick would help with that, gladly.

    “We are,” Len answered shortly.

    “And what’re you here for? To show me how no one cares about me? My parents don’t get me, don’t care. I hate them!”

    The response made no logical sense, but something about it struck a nerve with Len. The things he would’ve given up for Lisa to grow up in a house like this, with decent people for parents. People who gave a damn what happened to their children, if the kind mother at the door was any indication. And while Len knew the faces people showed to others weren’t always their real ones, the concern in that woman’s eyes wasn’t faked. He’d had a lot of experience with fake concern long before the FBI, knew what a person looked like when they played at civility, only to turn a moment later and beat his kids with a fist, a bottle. Almost made him want to beat some sense into the kid, himself. But that wasn’t his way, even though he could feel Mick tense at his side, more than aware of the danger.

    “No,” Len ground out, tight and controlled; Kyle, for his part, didn’t even seem to notice the change. “We’re here ‘cause you filed a report a week back.”

    “I already told the cops everything I know.”

    “Well we ain’t cops,” Mick spoke up, “so talk, punk.”

    “Who do you dare call -”

    “If I were you, kid, I’d start telling us what we need to know,” Len cut in, voice cold, because the last thing he was here for was to listen to ridiculous accusations from some spoiled, entitled teenage idiot.

    “About what,” he spat.

    “The Dollhouse.”

* * *

 

    Whiskey didn’t know who the man with the blue eyes was. Sierra didn’t know either. Even Delta didn’t know, and Delta was smart. None of them knew who the man with the blue eyes was. They all just told him it was okay that he didn’t know. They said it was okay and wanted him to eat with them.

    So Kilo did. He liked eating with his friends. They were all nice to him. But none of them cared about the man he kept thinking about. Kilo thought that maybe he shouldn’t either. He tried not to, but he couldn’t. He kept thinking about the man. He even dreamed about him last night.

    He was important. Kilo didn’t know why, but he was. He was another person like Kilo and Delta and Whiskey and Sierra were people, so he mattered.

    Right?

    Kilo didn’t even know why he knew him, but he knew the man had pretty blue eyes and a deep smooth voice. He knew he liked that. It made him smile, even if he didn’t know why.

    “Kilo,” the man with the nice suit and black glasses tapped him on the arm while he was walking.

    “Hello.” Kilo smiled.

    “It’s time for your treatment.”

    “I love my treatments.” He did love his treatments. He followed the man up the staircase and went into the room where he always saw the two men.

    “Hey, Kilo. You ready for your treatment?”

    “Yes.” He sat down in the special chair, and the man with the long hair went behind him. “Who is the man with the blue eyes?” Kilo asked. 

    “That’s Dr. Wells, Kilo. He used to be your handler. Mr. Mardon’s gonna take care of you now.”

    Kilo didn’t answer. The man with the black glasses and the suit wasn’t the man he was talking about. He looked at the other man who was always in the imprint room. He looked upset. Maybe he would know about the man Kilo was wondering about.

    But Kilo didn’t get to ask. He laid back for his treatment. The chair felt warm and then there was a flash of purple light.

* * *

 

    “So you’re coming to tell me I’m not allowed to sue them for what happened? Because the world is terrible and everyone hates me? Is that it?”

    Len was honestly ready to let Mick beat the kid. Things were getting out of hand. Made him miss being one of the villains sometimes. Shame the kid was the only person who was apparently willing to out the Dollhouse because of spite. “How about we save everyone a lot of time and energy and skip over the part where you bemoan the world, hmm?”

    “Oh, you really are just like them aren’t you? You -”

    “‘Less you wanna end up in a dumpster next morning, answer the damn question, punk,” Mick growled, and the kid shrunk back.

    “Okay,” he huffed, “fine.”

    “The Dollhouse.”

    “I made a call, okay?”

    “For what?”

    “They can give you a person for whatever you want. All I wanted was for someone to finally understand me like no one here tries to,” he frowned, and Len could feel the headache seeping behind his eyes. Another rant was the last thing he needed.

    “And how do they do this? This Dollhouse?” Mick questioned, just what Len was curious about, too. Because he’d heard about the Dollhouse, heard the urban myths over the years, and...somewhere else, too. Recently.

    The kid shrugged. “I dunno. They just do it.”

    “The people. Where they from?”

    Another shrug. “Talked to the higher ups at the Rossum Building downtown.

    “Rossum?” Len perked back up.

    “Yeah.”

    Len grimaced. More pieces that didn’t fit together. The company had their fingers in bits of everything: medical research, military tech, urban development, even had backed the Particle Accelerator before that had gone up in smoke. Len supposed it might not be too surprising they were involved somehow, but it was a variable he hadn’t been expecting. One that complicated things.

    It was a start though, if nothing else - the company building downtown shared a courtyard with the GATE Corporation. Len could get a hand on those schematics, see if there was anything of interest in to be found there.

    “Anything else you know about them?”

    “No.”

    Len sighed. Kid wasn’t forthcoming. “How about that night. Wanna tell me why you tried to sue a multimillion dollar corporation?”

    “Because they wronged me.” And people called Len dramatic. “I just wanted them to make someone who got me, and they did. We connected and it felt good.” Len wanted to cringe at that, though he couldn’t completely banish that primal feeling in his gut. “Nobody understood me like Impulse did.” Mick looked ready to laugh. “We were at the river, on the bridge” - Len  _ really _ wanted to cringe - “and it was good, but then all of a sudden he was different. He was mad at me, and he wasn’t supposed to be! Out of nowhere he pushes me into the river and he was gone when I got out. I hate him. I hate them.” He glared up at Len and Mick, the effect mostly lost - the kid was far from terrifying. “You’d better do something about this.”

    “We’ll see about that.” Because Len did intend to. He meant to get to the bottom of this, figure out just what was going on, and how someone was apparently “meant” to act a certain way, and why they would change on a dime like that. But it was for his own reasons, the ones that had to do more with the twisting feelings in his gut, not what the kid was implying. “Last question and we’ll be outta your hair.” Len reached into his coat pocket, drew out the picture. “This the guy you met?”

    Kyle’s eyes widened. That was all Len needed to know his answer, stuffing Barry’s photo back into his pocket and departing, Mick on his tail.

    Mick started driving before he posed the question. “You already knew this had something to do with the kid. Hunter knows what we’re up to?”

    “Perhaps.” Though he still found it more likely that the DA knew more than she had let on. Must have seen the picture Len had of the kid, matched it to the sketch done regarding the Kyle O’Ron case, included in the file he’d been given. It was all too deliberate an action to have been a coincidence - she must have some sort of stake in this all, too.

    Just another mystery surrounding Barry Allen.

    “So what’s the plan?” Mick interrupted.

    “We know where Rossum’s at, we start there. See if there’s anything to find.”  _ And then get Barry out _ , his mind supplied, nearly bringing with it thoughts that extended past protectiveness, thoughts Len didn’t need at the moment. It pushed him to extract the photo again, the visual stimulus clicking something else into place. The Dollhouse - the kid had mentioned it in his emails. Not with any vague intention of anything, but a mild interest befitting of what Len could read of him. Len knew he had to worry about the kid, just what they were doing to him, if it was anything like what Barry had conjectured, most of which was less than savory, but apparently morbidly intriguing.

    Yet, at the same time, looking at the picture, Len couldn’t help but wonder just what color the kaleidoscope of the kid’s eyes even were. Something he hadn’t been able to see in the dark of the alley.

    He scowled at himself, hid the picture away again. He had to stay focused, step up his game, and thoughts like that definitely were not helping. 

    Back at headquarters, Len purposefully tackled a different facet of the ever more complex mystery before him. Recalling the earlier morning, he tried to find just what he’d been looking at when Laurel Lance had happened to stroll in. Tried to find just what had caught her interest enough to make some sort of connection between him and Barry and the Dollhouse. The pictures, names of people of interest. He scrolled through the pages again, more slowly this time, more focused on the individuals, on the details.

    Raymond Palmer. Jefferson Jackson. Felicity Smoak. Kendra Saunders. All reported missing within the last few years.

    And...oh, the DA definitely had her own motives in giving Len that case, and that motive was staring at him from his computer screen.

    Sara Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI this chapter is also full of references to things (not unlike a lot of other chapters I've written). And the cameo was 100% my brother's random suggestion that came out of nowhere - wasn't originally planning to use it, and then realized it helped the plot, so why not?
> 
> (Oh, and I'm also updating the tags now, so you can see the other ships I have planned for this story, but they're all mostly background stuff - this _is_ a Coldflash-centric story, after all).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resident scientists of the Dollhouse might've just stumbled onto something a bit...odd, though no one quite knows what to make of it, while Len is still left puzzling out the mystery set before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Sorry, meant to get this out yesterday, but was out for part of the day, and then realized editing this was gonna be a slightly bigger pain than normal. And B: this isn't the most...exciting chapter, and I'm really sorry, but it needed to happen to set up for things down the road, some more immediate than others.

    Caitlin Snow had been the Dollhouse’s doctor for a number of years, offered the position shortly after it had begun operations. No one liked to say it out loud, but she was a smart enough woman to know that the position had come as some sort of compensation for the “incident” at STAR Labs, as they liked to call it, as if it hadn’t taken lives, changed others irreparably. Maybe if she were someone else, it would’ve been too much of an insult to accept the position they’d given her, but the work was good. It kept her mind off of her own pain, let her focus on that of others, on the Dolls. Doing that, helping people who didn’t know how to help themselves, it grounded her, and the passage of years had begun to start the process of dulling the pain. Things weren’t nearly as bad as they had been when she’d first lost Ronnie, and even if she’d still planned to keep her heart closed to love, well, she wasn’t opposed to the new semblance of family she’d ended up finding here. Because it meant she wasn’t alone anymore, not really, and climbing the stairs to the imprinting room and workplace had become more of a pleasure than an inconvenience.

    “Caitlin!” Cisco grinned up from where he was stretched out on the couch, Rubik’s Cube in hand, red vine hanging from his lips.

    She smiled back. It tended to be an easy thing to do around him. He wasn’t as standoffish as Hartley, and had been quick to welcome her to their team from the start, had been there for her on those harder days, especially at the beginning.

    “Something up? I mean, not like you being up here has to mean something’s wrong, but, y’know…” He gestured vaguely at the rest of the Dollhouse a floor below, and she understood. Their whole situation wasn’t exactly normal by any means. For as much as things were made to look like they were under control, Caitlin knew better than most that that wasn’t always the case; in their line of work, it was just that much more possible that something could easily go wrong.

    “Nothing bad. I was just wondering if you’ve noticed anything...off with Kilo.”

    “Off?” His eyebrows pulled together. “Like, off how? He’s not going, like, all serial killer and slashing people’s faces or anything it that’s what you mean.”

    “If that were the case, do you honestly think she’d come to  _ you _ for help, Cisco?”

    Cisco rolled his eyes, and Caitlin did what she could to keep her expression neutral. “No one asked you, Hartley,” Cisco mumbled, scowling.

    “Yet that doesn’t make my answer any less relevant, does it?” He smirked, standing in the doorway to the smaller room housing the Chair and its computers. “Caitlin,” he inclined his head at her, trying to pull off an amicable greeting.

    “Hartley,” was her terse response.

    “What was it you were saying about Kilo?”

    Caitlin shot a glance at Cisco, who looked like he was pleading none too subtly with his eyes for her not to tell Hartley. She couldn’t say she didn’t understand - she definitely did - but...they were scientists, and this was something beyond their personal lives. Something beyond  _ them. _ “I was just asking Cisco if he’s noticed anything off about Kilo lately.”

    “And I said there isn’t, so your services aren’t needed,” Cisco added hurriedly, trying to convince Hartley to leave in whatever way he could.

    Which didn’t work, as Hartley ignored him entirely. “Any reason you have to wonder about sweet little Kilo?”

    She narrowed her eyes. Hartley knew something, more than he was letting on. “Just a couple things.”

    “Like?”

    “He seemed...upset the last few times he’s come to me after an engagement.”

    “And?” Hartley asked, raising an eyebrow as Cisco elaborated, “Just ‘cause the Dolls are, like, five years old mentally doesn’t mean they don’t have feelings, Cait.” For as much as those two hated each other, it’d be hard not to notice how much they could think alike - immediately skeptical, though visibly curious about whatever was coming next, almost always on a very similar wavelength when it came to problem solving.

    “No, I mean every time, not just because of anything from a specific engagement. It’s happened ever since Mardon became his handler.”

    Hartley’s brow furrowed, but it was Cisco who spoke. “What? We did the bonding procedure like we always do. He should be fine. He’s just...not taking to him?”

    “Mardon hasn’t reported anything?”

    “No, but I suspect a guy like that wouldn’t know feelings if they slapped him in the face,” Hartley answered, face twisting as it looked like he was thinking harder. “Though that explains the elevated brain activity the past few weeks.”

    “The what?” Cisco supplied.

    “This is why you play with your toys, Cisco, and let me deal with the real science.” Cisco frowned at that, too, but Caitlin couldn’t disagree too heatedly; there had been a reason they’d  _ both _ been brought on, not just one or the other. Each of their specialties complemented each other. “I’d been attributing it to the stress of a high number of engagements in a short amount of time.”

    Caitlin had considered that, too. “But not all of those engagements have been high-stress.” Past, more extensive checks of Dolls post-engagement had shown romantic or sexual assignments to normalize brain activity, de-stress even a person in their  _ tabula rasa _ state. Cisco had looked some mix of disgusted and about to laugh at that when those tests had first been conducted, but Caitlin knew the science had held the same since then, just observing the Dolls while they were in her office. “His state of distress shouldn’t be this continuous. Even when he’s had multiple stressful engagements in a row, things were never this bad when Dr. Wells was his handler. Mardon is the only thing that’s changed for him.”

    “Yeah, but he was with Dr. Wells for, like, three years. Maybe -”

    “Shouldn’t make a difference, Cisco,” Hartley immediately disagreed. “While immediate psychological effects of an engagement might linger, the whole point of the Chair is to take conscious memories of specific people and places away. Unfortunately, until we get another handler, which I doubt Captain Singh will agree to, there isn’t anything we can do about this.”

    The notion didn’t sit well with Caitlin, but the words died on her tongue as Hartley spoke again. “Anything else he did? Said, maybe?”

    Oh, he definitely knew something. Caitlin narrowed her eyes at his reluctance to speaking plainly, but if she didn’t ask, none of them would get anywhere. “He keeps asking me something. Something about a man with blue eyes.”

    Hartley's eyes actually widened a bit at that, and Cisco looked thoughtful. “Hey, wait a sec. He said that when Dr. Wells brought him here to be bonded with Mardon. Ha! He does remember! Told you!” His mirth died quickly, though, at that implication, what that might mean about his tech. “Wait…”

    “It’s not Wells.”

    “Man, what? Of course it is -”

    “Are you capable of shutting up for a minute, Cisco? Or am I overestimating your abilities?” Hartley spat, and Cisco crossed his arms, resentfully quiet. “It was never Wells. You didn’t see after you said that to him, but it wasn’t the answer he was looking for.”

    “If it wasn’t Dr. Wells, who else could it be?” It was Caitlin’s turn to ask.

    “Eddie?” Cisco offered, and Hartley looked ready to agree, but Caitlin tended to be more privy to the everyday happenings of the Dollhouse, if only because of where her office was situated.

    “I don’t think so.” She thought back to what she’d seen of the blond handler. “Even when they’re in the same place at the same time, Kilo’s never paid him any more attention than he does the other Dolls or handlers.”

    “What if it’s a dream? Cisco’s eyes lit up at his own suggestion. “Dude, what if it  _ is _ a dream, like, some sort of recurring thing? Like, would they even know it’s a dream or would it seem like a memory or…” Cisco jumped up from the couch, running to his computer, probably about to run some tests, oblivious to Hartley’s scowl.

   Caitlin, though, for her part, laughed and settled down, ready to spend a little more time up in that room than she had originally planned, Cisco having effortlessly broken the tension. For as much as there were some weird things going on, rumors about a Federal Agent circulating, along with this situation surrounding Kilo and Mardon - which she _ did _ plan to get to the bottom of - at least this wouldn’t change, being welcome up here with Cisco and even, begrudgingly, with Hartley. It was a slow discovery, but a discovery nonetheless, that, for as much as the Particle Accelerator had taken away, maybe it had given her something, too. Things weren’t perfect, but they were getting there.

* * *

 

    Len couldn’t force himself to sleep, his mind too preoccupied with other things, even if Mick had purposefully left hours ago with a gruff command for Len to get some shut-eye. He’d been throwing everything he had into this case, spending hours upon hours on his couch, at the coffee table, files spread out in front of him, some sort of intricate puzzle with Barry Allen embroiled in it all somewhere. This boy who didn’t exist who was, somehow, inexplicably at the center of this mess for Len. This boy whom Len couldn’t get out of his head, even if he tried.

    Hence why, even after Mick had left, Len hadn’t moved, still looking at the mess of papers and seeming dead ends around him. Everything about the kid piled in one corner, a profile of someone whom the records said wasn’t real, but was apparently nerdy and stumbled over his words and, as the last few pieces (containing explicit information now, his informant no longer sending just vague emails, which convinced him this person somehow knew of his actions, something he’d been forced to weigh as a minor worry in the grand scheme of things) told him, lonely. Apparently the year before all communication was severed, the kid had been pulling away; fewer meetups for coffee, less writing, just being closed off. Which of course just made Len wonder just what had happened to this picture of a sweet, geeky kid. What made him cold and distant, had eventually turned him into a criminal, some rich kid’s date, gone from a boy tripping over his words to someone who knew just how to make Len’s breath catch with a little proximity.

    He forcibly looked away from that corner of the table; he had to keep focus, and thinking about the kid didn’t help that cause.

    Finances - he and Mick had taken a look into Kyle O’Ron’s accounts, as well as those of his parents. Large lump sums of money were often telling of something brewing. Perhaps it was unsurprising that there wasn’t one, but instead multiple, smaller (admittedly still large, but comparatively small) transfers to names which, when searched, had some connection to Rossum. The company clearly had something to do with the Dollhouse - a front? Regardless, the money trail had cropped up a few more rich assholes who had made similar transactions - Dollhouse customers, he could only assume. Len had briefly considered questioning them, but further interrogation of Kyle had revealed that customers were supposedly sworn to secrecy; Len, for one, considered himself lucky, so to speak, he’d found such a whiny kid so willing to talk and complain. But questioning anyone else likely wouldn’t be as fruitful a venture, none of them presumably having any reason to talk, and any threat he could make being, for all intents and purposes, empty, when none of the public believed there was anything to be questioned about. Nor would names and money trails be of much use beyond just what they were; without times, places of where things might happen - both things which could change by circumstance - there was only so far they could go.

    Mick had picked up schematics for the building, too, the sheets of paper rolled up for the time being at the leg of the table. Rossum, GATE, the surrounding buildings and area. Nothing. Just normal office buildings, by all accounts - no outstanding features on any of them, despite how much Lisa - who had happened to drop by and insinuate herself during one of their research sessions - seemed to advocate the idea of some sort of underground tunnel between Rossum and GATE. Outwardly, there wasn’t anything to suggest something out of the ordinary. Just a business district in uptown Central, sitting on top of an underground parking garage.

    Which, of course, would turn out to be the most interesting part in all of this.

    Rip, unsurprisingly, had actually suggested they go into the main offices, demand answers, to which Mick had answered for the both of them that that was stupid. A company as large as Rossum with interests as secretive as the Dollhouse would immediately take note if a couple Feds started sniffing around. If they weren’t aware of their actions already. So no, nothing so official would do. But a stakeout of who came in and out of the parking garage, a single car parked in public property? Less noticeable, but provided definite info on comings and goings, schedules, just who else might be there and why. Unsurprising were the Rolls Royces and BMWs driving in and out, all hours of the day. But as night would get closer, the rich business cars were less frequent, replaced by black vans with tinted windows usually returning, occasionally leaving. A few days in the area had also proven that quite a few of those vans would leave in the earlier morning - presumably the same ones which would return at night - never going to, or returning from, the same place in any sort of pattern as far as they could tell. Just where those vans were headed, why, and what they were carrying was a mystery, still. The Dollhouse dealt in people, apparently, so perhaps the vans were meant to pick up those people, take them to those meetings? Except, if people were being picked up, where had they been before, and why were people like Barry, so entwined in the story of the Dollhouse, nonexistent?

    Following the vans was something Len honestly wanted to avoid if possible -  too high a risk of them being found out, and they might only be able to play it off once if they were lucky. It was a last resort at best.

    Traffic cameras tended to be more useful on that front, showing the vans stopping at a number of different places - sometimes homes like that of Kyle O’Ron, high class restaurants, seedy bars, arcades, or out of range of the cameras on occasion, toward the more open, rural areas of the city. No real pattern - though they had been able to find similar money transfers between the owners and of those expensive residences and Rossum. Wealth was the only real connection.

    The cameras, however, did reveal some other things - the people getting out of those vans. Grainy security footage wasn’t the most reliable, but the faces were recognizable - dark hair and dark eyes of Raymond Palmer, dressed in a suit outside the Gala at the Central City Museum just last week. Sara Lance outside of a gym and meeting some man a few months back. Which Len had smirked at; he’d questioned the DA about her sister, apparently something of a rebel, dated a lot of delinquents - Len had decided he liked her on the spot.

    And, of course, Barry Allen, who appeared a number of times in the footage - unsurprising to Len, if the kid was apparently being “hired”, as Kyle had put it, though Mick disagreed, still obviously bemused by Len’s resolution. Stopped a couple times at various mansions, once at a karaoke bar - which Len had to admit to himself, he was very curious about - and occasionally at warehouses not unlike the one Len and Mick had first seen him at.

    But how he could be in so many different places as, what seemed like, so many different people - even the most skilled con-artists Len had ever dealt with weren’t  _ that _ good. Len himself couldn’t put up that many different fronts.

    He sunk back into the couch, rubbing his eyes and slipping the reading glasses off his face, no need to see the details of the last of the papers still in his hand. Bank activity they’d stumbled upon by chance after they’d tried looking into the other wealthy citizens of Central. Money sent to the same accounts as the O’Rons’ had been, but only reached the final sum only recently. Someone likely to be serviced next, or soon, by the Dollhouse, if Len had to guess.

    Some Professor Gossum at the local university - around Len’s age, on the apparent short list for a Nobel Prize for research in biomedical engineering, particularly in gene therapy, though the specifics of that, Len didn’t entirely know. Unmarried, and surprisingly well-off for her choice of career.

    In all honesty, Len supposed he couldn’t find it all too surprising that this woman might go through this corporation to find someone for herself, even if just for a while. Taking a breath, letting his eyes drift closed, just made it easier to imagine Barry in that position, in that setting. Young college kid, like in the picture (though that backdrop had proved to be Johns Hopkins, not Central, he’d realized), enjoying life, laughing with friends, complaining about classes, getting into arguments over comic books and movies and TV. Even while Len had only a few sources, only a couple pictures, his wandering mind didn’t hesitate to fill in the rest of the picture for him. The way the kid’s face might light up when he was excited, or the way his hazel eyes might crinkle in mirth, or the sound of his laugh.

    It was entrancing, and the last thing on Len’s mind as sleep finally found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...apparently I've never actually written Caitlin before (at least, never used her POV) and wow, am I gonna have to amend that. I actually just hope I have her voice okay to some approximation? Feel free to let me know, cause I'm not entirely sure.
> 
> Oh, and random note: there's references in here, too, so kudos if anyone happens to notice them :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len had been intending to follow up on their most recent lead, but an unexpected variable means that things don't go quite to plan.

    Data. Data was what Len needed. Up until now, there were parts missing, things he needed to know to fit together the disparate pieces of information he’d been able to find, that might tell him just what the Dollhouse was actually doing. Just where the people coming out of the vans were from, there being no cameras they could access in the private garage. All valuable data he didn’t have.

    DA Lance had told him what she could about her sister’s disappearance, something about a shipwreck while on a cruise with playboy Oliver Queen, though Queen’s statement about not knowing what had happened to her was one that the DA obviously didn’t believe. And Len didn’t either. Camera footage had shown Queen coming to and from the Rossum Building on a near-daily basis in his own car - clearly involved, but in a different way. Even if, for all they knew, it could be legitimate business between Queen Consolidated and Rossum, Len didn’t believe that for a second, couldn’t let himself believe it.

    All it really proved was that there were a lot more intricate, moving parts than Len could’ve imagined.

    And it’d come time to check on one of those moving parts. Hence why Len was at Central City University, ready to find their Professor Gossum, see if he could weasel out information, or at the very least, get a more accurate profile for the type of people who would go calling the Dollhouse. Mick was still back at the apartment, sifting through papers, on call if either Len or Rip needed him, though Len could really see no reason why things wouldn’t just go to plan, easy and expected.

    Given how everything involving the Dollhouse had gone, though, it shouldn’t have come as any surprise when a new variable came into play.

    The black van sitting in the back corner of the lot was definitely there for a reason, and Len was almost certain the name of that reason was the Dollhouse. He didn’t spare another glance at it, just kept walking toward the heart of the college, even if he couldn’t help but wonder if luck might be on his side.

    None of the research he and Mick had done couldn’t turn up exact dates or schedules or time tables for the Dollhouse. All they’d known about this particular circumstance was that it was liable to happen soon.

    Just might turn out to be today.

    He headed toward the Life Sciences Hall, moving simultaneously with a crowd and yet far enough away to avoid being jostled. Through the halls and up the elevator for the right floor, waiting in the right hall until the kid he’d seen inside had finished up whatever it was they were discussing - this  _ was _ a school, and Len saw no point in denying students of time they might legitimately need, even if their professor had other things on her mind.

    Not five minutes and there was a voice at his left.

    “Hi. Do you know where Professor Gossum’s office is? Sorry, I’m supposed to be there later today, and I didn’t wanna be late. But I guess I forgot the office number. I mean, my friends say I’m scatterbrained and I guess they’re kinda right…” The kid scratched at the back of his neck, and Len worked to keep the surprise off his face.

    Barry. Looking all too innocent, nothing like the version of him he’d last met.

    Lucky day indeed.

    He lied back easily, an amicable smile on his face. “Professor Gossum? She actually just said she’d be heading home for the day. Wasn’t feeling well.”

    “Oh,” the kid’s face fell in the most adorable way, and Len wondered just who was as actually talking to. This wasn’t Sam facing him with his cold eyes and hot breath, and thank god it wasn’t Impulse. He wondered lightly if this was actually Barry -  _ Bartholomew  _ \- but...his gut said no. There was something just missing somehow. Something that didn’t feel quite natural.

    Fortunately, there was a fairly easy way to find out just what that was.

    “You need a ride, kid?”

    He brightened again. “Can you? That’d be so nice of you, Mister!”

    The formal address made Len want to cringe. Definitely not the kid he’d cased, which still confused the hell out of him. “You’re gonna get a ride in my car, kid, call me Len.”

    “Okay.” Another smile.

    Len gestured toward the exit with a tilt of his head, got the kid following him, out of the building and down a longer path through the school, one that would take them closer to his car, and farther away from the black van. But as they got in and Len started the engine, something stirred unpleasantly in his gut at the thought of what exactly he was about to do. He had no delusions about himself and the person he was - he wasn’t a good guy, could never really be that, he knew - but he always liked to think there was some line he wouldn’t cross, the line that made sure he was better than people like his father.

    It was hard to think that, despite his reasons, this wasn’t pushing it at all.

    “So what’s your name, kid?” he asked, needing the distraction, needing to force that particular fear from his mind.

    “Oh, I’m Chris. Sorry, I guess I forgot to tell you that.”

    Chris. Another new name, another new personality - Len couldn’t figure just what was going on. And there wasn’t a surefire way of asking, either, seeing as how his last attempt had left him bruised and on the ground. “What’re you studying?” Safe enough question.

    “Oh, I dunno yet. The future’s big and scary and stuff. But,” a pause that Len couldn’t help but notice, “I think I like chem. Yeah, I think I like chem.”

    That definitely caught Len’s attention. Didn’t seem to match what he could read off “Chris” - some pretty college student who seemed to be there less for studies than to be an easy fuck for some professor.  _ That _ answer, about studying chem, that matched Barry. He glanced over subtly, unable to really stop himself, seeing the kid’s eyes wandering up and down his body. He couldn’t stop the smirk. “See something you like?”

    The kid seemed to catch himself, looking out the window as Len imagined the flush coloring his cheeks. He didn’t mind being so blatantly checked out - it was a good way to not think about just what he was doing and the fact the kid didn’t seem to know their own first name. That was a thought he really didn’t need monopolizing his head. Even if Barry was damn pretty, up close and in daylight and not trying to kill him.

    “We almost there yet?”

    “Almost.”

    “So how do you know Professor Gossum?”

    “Heard a lot about her work and got to know her.” It wasn’t a lie, not really.

    “So you’re interested in controlled gene therapy with recombinant adino-associated viruses used to combat disease?”

    Well, that was...unexpected. And surely out of character. Len definitely didn’t know what to make of that. “Something like that.”

    “Cool.” The kid settled back again, unnervingly comfortable. “We almost there yet?”

    Len took a breath, about to chastise the kid for asking the same question again, but chose against it, replying coolly, “Close,” and hearing the content hum in reply. There was clearly something more here that he was missing. It was almost like the most severe case of Dissociative Identity Disorder Len had ever heard of, though there had been no indication of that in all of the things his informant had fed him. This...state (for lack of a better term) Barry was in had to do with the Dollhouse, but how? Medical treatments to, what, create multiple identities? But something like that shouldn’t be possible, should it?

    He pulled to a stop in front of his building, and the kid stared. “This is where she lives?”

    Len paused a moment. “No, it’s not.”

    “Wait, so then why…” The kid’s eyes widened, and he scrambled to open the door, only to find it locked from the inside. “Oh my god did you kidnap me? Oh my god oh my god…”

    “Relax, kid.” Len held his hands out and open, saw the slight amount of relief it brought. “FBI. I’m here to keep you safe.”

    “Safe from what?” And wasn’t that the question? Len wished he knew just what the answer was, because he couldn’t fight the gut feeling of protectiveness over this boy he barely knew.

    “Why don’t you come inside?” The hesitance was still painfully clear. Len sighed. “I swear, I’m not gonna hurt you, got it? I can’t promise you’ll get the same sort of offer from the people looking for you if they find us.”

    A slow nod, and Len was glad he’d apparently inspired some trust in the kid as he unlocked the door, led him up the stairs, through the door to his home.

    Mick was there to meet them immediately, eyes narrowing carefully. “The hell is he doin’ here, Snart?”

    “I’m sorry, do I -”

    “Meet my partner, Mick Rory. Mick, Chris.” The larger man barely reacted, just watched more closely as Len motioned for the kid to follow him into the kitchen, far from the case files built up in the living room. As he settled down, Len gestured with a subtle jerk of his chin for Mick to keep watch, and he complied; they only had so much time before the Dollhouse figured out that something wasn’t right. Len turned his attention back to the kid, took in the wide eyes, the tense shoulders, the way his gaze flickered around the room. “Chill, kid.”

    “‘Chill’? That’s what - you want me to just chill? You’re saying there’s someone out there trying to get to me and - and - and you just don’t want me to care? That thing’s gonna come get me and -” his words suddenly broke off into ragged breaths as he collapsed into a chair, visibly shaking.

    “Hey,” Len dropped to his knees in front of the kid, grabbing a hold of his wrists, hearing his own voice go soft in a way it hadn’t since Lisa was younger, “hey, look at me. B-Chris,” he bit back a curse for almost stumbling on the goddamn name completely, but it got the kid listening. “Good. You’re gonna be fine, got it? I’m gonna make sure nothing’s gonna hurt you. You can trust me.”

    Len had to keep from gasping as those eyes - not hazel, exactly, he found, but a ring of stormy blue surrounding pale green - rose up to meet him. A slow but deliberate nod followed. “I trust you.” The sincerity there - it made Len’s chest suddenly feel tight for reasons he didn’t want to dwell on, and he stood, releasing his wrists. Now that the kid seemed out of the worst of his momentary panic, it’d be safe for Len to go fill in his partner, who was more than owed an explanation.

    Safe. Len chuckled at the word as he made back for the living room. Safest he got out of the kitchen before he did something stupid.

    Mick was ready with questions as he returned, not moving from where he was keeping an eye on the street, the living room window the only one with a clear view in that direction. “The hell was that, Lenny?”

    Len leaned against the wall near the window, facing his partner. “Saw one of their black vans.”

    “At the school?” Mick turned away from the window.

    A nod. “Was on my way to have a chat with the professor; happened to run into him on the way.”

    “So you just, what, took ‘im?” Len didn’t answer, and Mick scoffed, looking back outside through the window. “Better have a plan, Snart.”

    Truth be told, at the start, Len very much didn’t have a plan, much as he hated operating without one. He’d seen the kid, and all he could think was that he had to get him out of there. Eventually, it’d caught up to him that what he’d done was far from a clean extraction, and he’d have to pay the consequences for that. But he was nothing if not adaptable, even if the option he’d settled on was, quite possibly, near suicide.

    “Yeah, I got a plan.”

* * *

 

    Chris didn’t know what to think. He was just a normal guy! Born and raised in Central City, going to the local college, and he was supposed to be at Professor Gossum’s office hours that afternoon! And now there were these, these...people after him? And he was at an FBI Agent’s house?! What did they want with him? And...and why?

    God, he was just really scared, Like, terrified. And, oh no, what were his parents gonna think if they found out if something happened? His mom and dad would freak if they knew and no, no, no, this was bad, this was bad.

    He stood up and started to pace, his hands gripping at his hair, because  _ oh god this was bad and who were these people and he really, really didn’t wanna die _ . But...but at least he wasn’t alone, right? He was in the house of an FBI Agent and his partner and it felt safe. Even though he’d been kidnapped first. And he’d seen enough TV shows where the government wasn’t actually the good guys to know that he should be on edge around agents. Still he...he felt safe and comfortable around Len, and he knew he trusted the man, even if he didn’t know why.

    Maybe it had something to do with the way he had held onto him when he was freaking out. The lower pitch of his voice when he was being gentle, not detached and sardonic like in the car. Then fact he was just an attractive man even though  _ woah _ , when had Chris thought of dudes as attractive? Not like he had anything against it or anything but, just...what the hell was happening?

    He stopped pacing, leaned against the counter, took some deep breaths. He tried to think of anything else except the man in the other room and managed to do nothing but fail completely. Because maybe it was his eyes that had caught him. Those deep blue eyes...the man with blue eyes…

    All of a sudden there was a weird feeling in his head, like some sort of buzzing he couldn’t get rid of. Not like it hurt, but it didn’t feel right. Like he was seeing things in his head he hadn’t known were there.

    Like he’d seen those blue eyes before.

    But he’d never seen Len before today!

    Right?

    There were footsteps coming closer to the kitchen, and Chris let go of his death grip on the counter. The bigger man - Mick - was there, sauntering to the fridge and pulling out a couple beers. He glanced over at Chris, lifted up one of the bottles for him to see. “Want one?” Chris shook his head, didn’t say anything. Mick’s eyebrows furrowed. “Everything okay, kid?”

    “What? Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Can I just, umm,” he scratched the back of his neck, “can I talk to Len? Just for a sec, I swear.”

    Mick grunted in agreement and was gone. Chris just tried not to freak out too visibly because  _ what had he just done? _ Oh god what had he done? Because...because what was he supposed to do now? Just go up to Len like “ _ hey, I actually know who you are! Sorry I didn’t recognize you before but I know now and cool, right! Plus _ -”

    “Something wrong?” Len was there, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, bottle hanging from his fingers, gaze cool and calculating.

    Chris opened his mouth, and the words were out before he could stop them. “I know you.”

    There was this tension in the air that hadn’t been there before. Chris could feel the weight of Len watching him, like he was sizing him up, until the stillness was broken. “You got the wrong guy.”

    “What? But - but I swear I recognize you!”

    “From where?”

    “...What?”

    “Where exactly would Chris, regular old student at Central City University, have met an FBI Agent?” Len’s tone was still measured and careful, the opposite of the frustration Chris could feel building inside of him.

    But then, that frustration just dissolved because… “I - I don’t know.” How? How could he not know where he’d met this man he was sure he’d seen before? If he knew they’d met, shouldn’t he know when and how? It was like there was just this gap where that information was supposed to be, like someone had just pulled the facts right out of his head. “I don’t remember.” He heard Len sigh, saw him take a swig of beer, staring at him as if he were studying him, but hell if he knew why. “Sorry.”

    “Not your fault, kid.” Another pause. “Anything else you...remember?”

    “What? Why would there be something else?”

    A shrug. “Just asking.”

    But still, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right, that he  _ knew _ Len from somewhere, even if the other man seemed ready to dismiss the thought. “I just - I swear I’ve seen you before.”

    “Maybe I’ve just got one of those faces.”

    No. “That’s not it! I’m telling you the truth! I -” he leaned forward onto the counter with a groan, grabbing his head in his hands. “It’s like I should know but I don’t and I don’t get why and -”

    There was that hand on his forearm, the touch instantly soothing. “Breathe, kid. Deep breaths, okay?” Len’s voice was gentler again now - he liked it that way. But it just made him believe even more that this man wasn’t a stranger. A quick touch and a few words wouldn’t have this much of an effect on him so quickly if they came from someone he’d never known. “Better?” Chris nodded. The hand on his arm disappeared, but he opened his eyes to find Len there, bent over close to him, blue eyes earnest. “I believe you. It’s not that I don’t, but things are...complicated.”

    “Complicated how? What’s so special about me?”

    Len looked like he was about to contemplate how to answer, when a call from the other room caught his attention. “Hey, Snart, might wanna come see this.” 

    Len’s gaze moved back to Chris, eyes hard and serious again. “Stay here.”

    Chris nodded again, even though Len was already on his way out through the doorway. He did push away from the counter, though, making his way to the exit, as close as he could get without technically leaving the room. From there, he could hear the conversation happening a room over.

    “Mick?”

    “We got company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: no, I don't know what "recombinant adino-associated viruses" are. I'm pretty sure I just googled research in gene therapy and then paraphrased a few words into that. I'm a science person, but not bio (although if anyone is, I'm totally down for learning about just what I actually typed there). So you can just kinda take it for what it outwardly is. Something super complex and really science-y. That's all it ultimately means to Len, anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len's improvised plan is set into motion. Some things go as planned, but, unsurprisingly, others don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, umm, quick apology for not posting this last week? (And also for it being so late today?). I don't have a good excuse for the latter, but Thanksgiving happened, and I was back with the family and etc. Not that you probably care though, so here's the next chapter!

    Len definitely wasn’t pleased to see those black vans pulling up outside his home, but he couldn’t exactly say he was surprised. With his mess of an extraction, he would’ve been more concerned if they hadn’t come after him. He knew it would happen, just didn’t know when. He glanced at his watch. One hour and thirteen minutes since he’d gotten in his car and left the campus. Impressive time, if he was being honest, especially considering the distance between the two places. Which only meant one thing: they knew he’d been looking into them, knew that he was their prime suspect for taking Barry, and he didn’t quite know what to make of that just yet.

    Except, well, he did, in a sense. Hence why...

    “Stickin’ to the plan?”

    “Not seeing a whole lot of other options.” Len glanced over, nodded his head quickly, subtly. “Go.”

    “Not leavin’, Snart.”

    “Mick,” he ground out.

    “Don’t think so.”

    “Need you to do what I said.”

    “Not gonna let those guys beat your ass.”

    Len turned to Mick then, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. “So they can do what? Catch us both? And where’s that get us?” He paused, looked back out the window, could see the individuals - two men and a woman, all dressed in suits - heading for the main door. “Need you to tell Rip what’s happening. They’re onto us - depending just how much they know, everyone else who has anything to do with this might be in danger.” DA Lance should be told, and Len would only trust Mick, no one else, with his little sister’s life. Rip himself also deserved to be forewarned of any impending possibilities. For as much as Len didn’t like the man, barely respected him, if at all, Rip was a husband and father; Len might be cold, but he wasn’t heartless. “Go,” he nodded again at the door, softer, insistent in a different way, and Mick listened this time around.

    And with Mick on the job on the outside, Len was ready for the other part of his plan. He walked back toward the kitchen, finding the kid standing at the doorframe, obviously having tried to eavesdrop. “I’m gonna need you to listen to me -”

    “They found me, didn’t they? Oh my god, oh my god they did, they did. And - and I thought you said you were gonna protect me -!”

    “I am.” Just likely not quite the way he was expecting. Truth be told, it wasn’t the way Len had been quite expecting either. Not much of this was going the way Len had been expecting.

    “But - but how can I trust you anymore? I thought you said you wouldn’t let them take me -’

    “I said I’d keep you safe and that I wouldn’t hurt you. Never said I could stop them.” Len crossed his arms, kept his voice neutral. He’d calmed the kid down before, but now de didn’t have the time. Only a minute or two at most before those people showed at his door. He’d originally intended to get Barry out of the apartment, lead them off the scent for a while, maybe give him some chance at escape, even if Len’s fate was surely sealed. A distant hope, but it’d been a hope nonetheless. If only “Chris” could’ve been a tad more cooperative. “Way I see it, you got two options. Either trust me, and whatever happens, I’ll do whatever it takes to help you out, or I can leave you to your own devices, see if you can cut a deal with them. Doubt they’ll be so sympathetic.” Granted, Len couldn’t be entirely sure of that, but the second option churned his stomach nonetheless, the thought of letting go of the kid after he’d finally found him, subjecting him back to whatever the Dollhouse was doing to him. But he kept his face impassive, knew he had to convince the kid to let him keep doing his job.

    At length - time they really didn’t have, the seconds ticking down - he answered. “You swear you’ll help me?”

    “I swear, even if it might look otherwise at the time.”

    “Then I trust you.”

    As if on cue, there came a knock on the door. “Agent Snart?”

    Shit.

    The kid looked to him with wide eyes, and Len answered evenly, “Bedroom, fire escape. Go.”

    “And you?” Len picked up the kid’s bag, handed it over, purposely paid no mind to the strangely concerned gesture. Nor the way hazel eyes seemed to linger just a split second longer on his lips. 

_ That _ couldn’t possibly be a good sign.

    “Don’t worry about me. Just get out of here, now.” He nodded in the direction of his room, let the kid get down there before he composed himself, waited as long as would be acceptable, took his time opening the door to the three people at his door. Well-dressed, average respective heights and builds, stern expressions on their faces. “Lady, gentlemen, anything I can help you with this evening?”

    “Actually, yeah, there is.” One of the men stepped forward: blonde hair, blue eyes, classically handsome.

    “And just what might that be?” Len asked, feigning innocence. The kid should’ve been safely out of harm’s way by now, but getting these people off his scent would be a nice bonus.

    “We’re looking for someone,” the same man answered, pulling a picture from his coat pocket. “You’ve seen him?” It was a clearly loaded question, the man - too earnest for his own good - obviously knowing just who he was talking to.

    A picture of Barry, but not the one Len had been given weeks ago. More recent, had him dressed down in a cotton T-shirt, though there wasn’t much more information he could glean from a simple headshot. “Sorry, not ringing any bells.”

    “Really?” The girl - darker blonde hair than the man and done up in a tight bun, blue eyes - started, obviously disbelieving.”Because we have reason to believe you’ve been looking into some cases we’re  _ very _ interested in.”

    Len shrugged. “Fine. Was looking into some old missing person’s cases my superior thought would shed light on something. They didn’t, trail went cold, I stopped looking, happy?”

    “Then you wouldn’t mind if we took a look around?” the girl went on. Len lifted an eyebrow and shrugged but stepped aside. Barry should be far enough away that Len shouldn’t have to worry about him, and the files - even the photos of Barry - could be explained by the story he’d fed them, while the documents he’d had on the Dollhouse’s clients had been taken along by Mick for further investigation, regardless of what happened to Len. The three agents - Len could only assume that’s what they were, given the way they carried themselves, the way they dressed - let themselves in, the two blondes pretty quickly finding his research, thumbing through it as Len stood off to the side, arms crossed, and the third - dark hair and eyes to match the scruff - wandered elsewhere, clearly looking for something more specific.

    Len smirked. “Think your friend is getting lost.” But he didn’t get a response, just heard the other man call out.

    “Chris, it’s time for your treatment!”

    The last word in particular sent a chill down Len’s spine. Treatment? The hell did that even mean? Len hadn’t seen that word anywhere in his searches, but it brought back theories to the forefront of his mind, and for as horrifying as the prospect was, Len was suddenly very not ready to rule out inducing multiple personalities. Except he couldn’t get very far in that thought process because...were those footsteps on the fire escape?

    Son of a bitch.

    And then there was Barry - Chris, who had apparently not even gotten off the damn fire escape - standing in front of the dark haired agent, looking happy and disturbingly blank. “I love my treatments.”

    Len fought against gulping. He hadn’t expected anything good out of the Dollhouse, but this was looking more and more like one of Lisa’s horror films. He watched as the dark haired agent smiled, a predatory grin, at the kid. “Of course you do.” Started leading him out, smirking at Len on the way out. “Looks like you’re a liar after all, aren’t you, Snart?”

    Len scowled at the man but didn’t refute him; he himself never claimed to be a virtuous man. He was soon followed by his associates, but not before they stopped in front of Len, expectant. “We’re gonna need you to come with us.” He tilted his head in a begrudging kind of assent, let them lead him out. It came as no surprise, after all, that they wouldn’t just leave him be, let him go. This was as far as he could really control in the plan, just letting himself get taken while keeping his phone on and traceable so that, at the very least, Mick might have some idea of where to pick things up, could’ve heard all of what had just come to pass.

    As for what might happen to him now, well, that was a calculated risk. If he made it out of this - however he made it out of this - he wasn’t about to give up his search; he’d find some way. And if things weren’t looking that way, well, that was why he’d entrusted Mick with setting up a few safeguards, things he’d begun putting in place a few weeks back, when the Dollhouse had proven less urban myth and more legitimate threat.

    Handcuffed and stuffed into a van, Len could only be glad for those safeguards existing. Feeling the pulse of unwanted memories, Len made instead to focus on his captors. Much to his annoyance, they were rather devoid of obvious tells - only a few glances here and there that had Len guessing. The blonde haired man - he tended to look around a lot more, just his eyes, like he was looking out for them all, a softness there tha Len might be able to exploit. He and the woman had little other interaction than that - just colleagues, then - though the glares that she shot occasionally at the other man didn’t go unnoticed. Tension, definitely something Len could manipulate. Then there was the dark haired man himself - radiated arrogance; made Len figure the woman had her reasons to glare the way she did.

    Then there was Barry.  Len had tried early to snap him - Chris? - out of this trance (the closest word Len could think of for what he was seeing) only to be met with a sharp look from the girl and an order to keep quiet, accompanied by another smirk from the darker haired agent. He shut his mouth then, but it couldn’t stop him from keeping an eye on the kid. Not as alarmingly blank anymore, but nervous in a very clear way - shoulders hunched, eyes wide and wary. Nothing like the rambling wreck he’d been when Len had first gotten a hold of him. Every now and then, he’d shoot a glance in Len’s direction, but it wasn’t a look that carried any meaning Len could decipher. No question of how Len would get him out of this mess like he’d presumed, or even anything accusatory, the both of them having been caught. Just innocent curiosity that Len didn’t understand. Like there was some puzzle to him that the kid wanted to figure out.

    Ironic, given his own position comparative to Bartholomew Allen.

    The van was pulling into that parking garage beneath Rossum, getting passed through security without question, when there was suddenly the feel of a hand brushing against Len’s. He jerked away at the sudden contact on instinct, turning his head to meet Barry’s gaze straight on. Hazel eyes locked onto his steadily, and a whisper followed, low enough for only Len to hear. “I remember you.”

    Len didn’t respond to that, didn’t know what to make of the cryptic statement, so like the one from earlier, and didn’t have the time to try before the van pulled to a stop. Then came that command again, “It’s time for your treatment.”

    “I love my treatments.” The same response again, too, as Barry followed the other man out, though his gaze lingered on Len for longer than Len could only guess it should’ve. Then he himself was yanked out of his seat, dragged out of the van, toward a single elevator, the only feature of note in the otherwise unspectacular garage.

    Len would never admit it later, but it was unnerving enough to send a chill down his spine.

    Anxiety churned in his gut as they began to ascend, and he forcibly kept himself from looking at Barry, at the puppy dog look he knew he would find, that he wouldn’t be able to stop looking at if he started. Now, of all times, he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

* * *

 

     “Oooh, look, something’s happening. I dunno what it is, man, but something’s happening.”

    Hartley looked up from the new imprint he’d been coding. Sometimes - no, correction, all of the time - he wondered why Singh had decided to bring Cisco Ramon on as his partner. It wasn’t just that he didn’t need a partner - he didn’t - but he could’ve done with anyone else who wasn’t Cisco. Someone whose continued ramblings and commentary were definitely not appreciated, and  _ especially _ not conducive to him working. So he turned, tearing his eyes away from the screen, “You care to share the  _ brilliant _ observations you’ve made with the rest of us, Cisco?”

    Cisco pouted - actually pouted - and Hartley swore he was working with an actual child. “Not with you.” He turned back with a softly muttered “dick” that had Hartley smirking.

    “So who  _ were _ you talking to? Your imaginary friend?”

    “No! I was, umm...talking to Caitlin.”

    “Who can obviously hear you from down there,” Hartley inclined his head toward the office for the Dollhouse’s doctor, across the main room and down a flight of stairs.

    “You know what? Look, all I was saying is it looks like they caught Captain Cold over there.”

    “Captain what?”

    “Cold. You know, the Fed who’s been poking around here,” and, fine, Hartley was intrigued, leaving the computer and joining Cisco at the railing looking out over the main floor.

    “Still a stupid nickname.”

    “Yeah, whatever, Pied Piper.”

    Hartley scoffed at his own Cisco-given codename, but didn’t respond as he laid eyes on the guy Cisco was talking about. And, well, he was attractive. Tall, somewhat slight in build though far from lanky, unexpectedly delicate facial features, even pulled as they were into a calculating frown. Definitely a pretty face if Hartley had ever seen one. Though that wasn’t to mean he was about to go bang the guy on the nearest flat surface; not only did he have more dignity than that, Hartley was a scientist first and foremost. He could observe without getting attached. It was what made him different than the Dolls, an observation made all too clear as Hartley began to laugh. “Looks like our little Kilo is flushing scarlet.”

    “What’re you-?”

    “Maybe if you’d just look, Cisco -”

    “Whaaat? Are Dolls even supposed to do that?”

    Hartley refrained from rolling his eyes, normally not an easy task, but, for all of Cisco’s stupid questions, this was an intriguing one. Technically, it was possible with the types of imprints they normally worked with. Basic attraction was a primal instinct, something that was considerably harder to manipulate than the higher-level thinking centers of the brain. It was the reason why they generally didn’t; commitment and loyalty could be programmed well enough, as could muscle memory. Primal desire, arousal, couldn’t be, at least as far as they knew, yet to be able to manipulate those portions of the brain without major risk. So it was possible, technically, for that desire to manifest itself in an imprint with the mental capacity to  _ recognize _ the feeling of desire.

    It just had never happened before, and it had Hartley interested.

    So he answered Cisco’s question in the way he knew how. “You messed up the imprint.”

    “Woah there, what? How do we know you didn’t screw up the frequency or something?”

    “Between you messing up the imprint and me messing up the frequency required for the imprint, which is more likely?”

    Cisco turned, headed back to meet Kilo and the operatives sent to retrieve him - and the pretty federal agent - in the imprint room with a scowl, “ass” slipping past his lips as Hartley actually rolled his eyes this time. The idiot had to come up with nicknames for him that weren’t “ass”, “dick”, or “Pied Piper”. They were beyond old at that point.

    He followed seconds later, in time to watch Cisco talking Kilo into the Chair. But also in time to watch their operatives take the pretty Fed into their elevator up to the top floor of the Rossum Building. He only caught the man’s eye for a brief moment - probably just in a desperate attempt to investigate their room - but kept watching and  _ ohhh _ . Gaze lingering on Kilo just as Kilo’s had lingered on him.

    Intriguing.

    Cisco hadn’t seen the look, and Hartley had doubts whether the mechanical engineer was able to recognize that look for what it was regardless. The shared and secretive and sometimes subconscious meanings of those looks.

    Hartley knew how to keep secrets like these, had to be good at it to survive both his own childhood, as well as his line of work. But he also knew how to bend the truth if it meant he could sate his own curiosity. And that look between a Doll and some Fed? Definitely piqued his interest.

    He jabbed the elevator call button.

    “Hey, woah, man. Where are you going?” Cisco guided a newly wiped Kilo from the room distractedly.

    “To talk to Singh.”

    “Now?”

    “Yes, Cisco,” he huffed. “Now.”

    “Why?”

    The elevator was stopping at their floor. “Just go play with your toys. I know you can do that.”

    “How does every word out of your mouth manage to make you sound like a dick?”

    The elevator opened, Hartley stepping in and pressing the button for the top floor. “And the nicknames are juvenile. At the very least, have some new ones ready when I get back.”

    Cisco’s incredulous look was the last thing he saw before the doors slid shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, this is the end of what I had backlogged for my 20k goal. Updates will move waaay slower from here on out, since I'll probably wanna make another buffer before I post more. BUT winter break is coming up, so hopefully it won't be too long anyway!
> 
> (Oh, and other random thing: expect more Hartley. He's weaseled his way into the plot. Just saying.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I'M ALIVE!! A million apologies for disappearing for a year, but here's a new chapter. I'm not totally happy with how this turned out, but...I owe anyone who's still reading this some new stuff. A couple notes below!

     The Dollhouse. Weeks, months, of research and late nights, poring over files and security footage and traffic cams, and Len was finally seeing it for real. Even if that was more the inside of Rossum’s service elevator than the Dollhouse itself, but he _had_ been caught, after all. All part of the plan. Except Barry wasn’t supposed to be caught with him. Len almost hated how much he couldn’t help but fixate on that fact, even more so after seeing the kid led into that chair for hell knew what. A single chair in the middle of the room – futuristic in the sort of way Len had liked to imagine as a kid, all clean lines and slick metal – adjacent to the room overlooking the rest of the Dollhouse. Which was what Len should’ve been focused on, figuring out what all of this had to do with what he’d already learned, not wondering if the dumb kid was okay.

     The elevator stopped abruptly, and Len forced the thoughts of the kid to the back of his mind. A distraction, one he couldn’t allow. Not when his plan had to go off without a hitch.

     Opening the doors revealed a large office – one of the top floors of the Rossum building, Len could only assume, with a wide view over Central. A man stood before them, features stern and dark eyes calm.

     “Captain Singh. Agent Snart, as you requested,” the woman at Len’s right spoke, words sharp, not someone to be trifled with. Corrupt organization or not, Len could respect her. The kind of woman his baby sister would’ve loved to have in her service, really.

     “Agent Spivot, Mr. Thawne.” Not an agent. Interesting. “Good work. Now, if you could un-cuff our guest.” The man – Singh – inclined his head toward Len, who just smirked back.

     “But sir,” the girl – Spivot? – started blurting out, “are you sure that’s a good idea? We aren’t sure what his intentions are, and if we un-cuff him, who even knows –“

     “Thank you for your concerns, Spivot, but I’m certain Agent Snart is able to behave himself.” Brown eyes turned to him, and Len nodded subtly, the smirk still playing on his lips. Might as well play nice for now. “Do it.”

     Thawne moved to unlock the cuffs, before following Spivot from the room. Len rubbed at his wrists; the cuffs had started to chafe.

     “Been a while since I was the one wearing those. Almost feel bad for being on the other side.”

     “That’s quite a statement to come out of a federal agent.”

     A shrug. “Everyone’s got their reasons for the things they do.” No reaction. Len couldn’t get a good read on the guy. Best try a different route. “Couldn’t help but notice they called you Captain. Mind if I ask?”

     “Is that really so important to you?”

     “Call me curious.” A tense few moments passed, but Len wasn’t about to stand down. Mick did call him a stubborn asshole for a reason. Especially now that he had nothing to really lose.

     “The old captain of the Central City Police stepped down, and I was named his successor. Then this position was offered to me shortly after.”

     “Mm,” Len hummed in response, “kept the title, but had a change of heart, did we? Going from justice to, what, human experimentation? Slavery?”

     “On the contrary, we do quite a bit of good. More than you even realize.”

     Len wasn’t in the mood to argue morality – he wasn’t one to talk, and he’d had a long enough day as it was. Time to switch topics. “Spivot – you called her an agent? Let me guess, ex-CIA? Doesn’t listen as well as Thawne. He worked for you?”

     “Impressive on both fronts. Spivot’s a newer addition, but Thawne was one of my detectives. I consider myself lucky he came along.”

     “And you’re telling me all of this, why?”

     “Because it won’t matter. You’re not the first person to go researching the Dollhouse, Snart. Everything in this building is confidential. We know how to keep our secrets.”

     Len raised an eyebrow. “Is this a threat?”

     “It is.”

     Len had expected as much. He hadn’t allowed himself to be captured without some contingencies, after all. Not his greatest plan, he’d admit – more of a gamble than he’d prefer – but it’d do on short notice. “Now, before we do anything rash, I think you deserve to know I do have a friend on the outside. All of the research about your little operation,” he twirled a finger in the air, indicating the building and everything underneath, “about to be leaked online. Unless he hears from me.”

     “You’re ready to risk everything on one leak? Collateral damage isn’t impossible to minimize. That wouldn’t be a first.”

     “Maybe not. But a leak and a lawsuit? The O’Ron case won’t stick on its own.” No real evidence, all of it circumstantial at best, and the courts wouldn’t care for some whiny, rich punk any more than Len did. “But with a major leak about Rossum and the Dollhouse? Sounds like evidence to me. And besides, kid’s family holds weight. Generals and war heroes, I’m sure you’re aware. Chances for major damage. You understand.”

     A quiet nod. “I do. I’m curious though. If everything you said is true, you have everything you think you need to take us down. But you’re making a deal for that information. I might not have been part of the Bureau, but that doesn’t seem like something they’d condone.”

     “Didn’t get where I am always playing by the rules. Clearly.” Len and Mick had their reputation for a reason, after all. “But now, Captain, the real question is: are you a betting man?”

     Singh didn’t blink an eye. Len would be impressed, if not for the situation. “Maybe I should be asking you the same question, Snart.”

     He rose an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

     “Your sister.”

     _Fuck_. “You wouldn’t dare.”

     The man stayed obnoxiously calm. “We have power, enough that everyone still thinks this place is an urban legend, despite evidence to the contrary. And you’ve seen some of our clientele, people in high places willing to help us keep our secrets.”

     Len wasn’t about to let that happen. Lisa was _not_ getting hurt because of his stupidity. Not by these twisted bastards who called themselves heroes. “If you even try to touch her, I swear-”

     “Captain Singh.”

     Len broke off, glaring for a few more seconds before glancing back, still tense. One of the kids he’d seen downstairs, the one with glasses, who carried himself with a stance that only came from money or excessive pride. Len would guess both, in this case.

     “What is it, Rathaway?” A note of exasperation. An unexpected development for all parties, it seemed. And one of the Rathaway’s, at that. Interesting.

     The kid made his way closer, not without a low whistle and a “hello, handsome,” thrown in Len’s direction. Flattering. If Len was being honest, the kid wasn’t too bad himself. “Well, I’m perfectly capable of guessing exactly what’s been going on up here, so in light of that, I would like to make an alternate proposal.”

     “That won’t be necessary –“

     “Make him a handler.” For the first time, Singh looked surprised. Len was impressed, he’d admit. Even if he didn’t know what the hell was going on.

     “Back to your station. And we _will_ be having a talk later.”

     “Actually, we won’t be. Like I said, he should be a handler. Kilo’s handler, in fact.”

     A pause. “I’m assuming you have a reason?”

     “Several.” Of course. Rathaway had seen Len for all of ten seconds and had more than a single reason for whatever he was getting at. If “handler” somehow meant spending more time around this place, Len wasn’t sure that’d be worth the headaches. “Kilo hasn’t been responding well to Mardon; Caitlin can provide you with any evidence of that you might need. To continue with their bond could prove detrimental. I’d have to run tests to be certain, but I’m sure none of us would like to take this chance. You know, security risk and all. “

     “And you think Snart is a better fit?” Singh sounded as skeptical as Len felt. If that was good or bad was a different question.

     And then Rathaway’s eyes were back on him, roaming the length of Len’s body, one part heated and one part calculating. Unnerving. “I believe Cisco would call it a gut feeling.”

     Singh’s turn to size him up, apparently finding whatever he’d been looking for. “Alright, Rathaway. We can try your idea. But if something goes wrong, you and Ramon are figuring out how to fix it.” The kid nodded, and Len wasn’t a fan of being left out of a conversation that concerned him.”

     “And how, exactly, does this benefit me?” Too much was being left unsaid for Len to be anything but cautious, his drawl out in full force.

     “It means,” Rathaway beat Singh to it, “we let you look around. Given you don’t rat us out, you’ll be allowed to join our little family, learn everything you want to, sate your curiosity. And keep us accountable, if that’s what you care about. You’ll also have the opportunity to keep your eye out for Kilo.” Something in his voice changed, like he thought he knew something about Len. What that was, precisely, Len couldn’t know for sure. “You can make sure he stays safe here, seeing as how you’ve already tried to do that in your own way. Him and everyone else in our employ. Then everyone else you love will be kept out of danger. If you ask me, that’s not too bad for you. Or me.” That heated look was back in the kid’s eye. Which Len pointedly chose to ignore. Normally he’d be unopposed, but now wasn’t the time.

* * *

 

      “No. No no no this is not happening! Nope, nuh-uh, no way.”

     Hartley rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time. “Unfortunately for you, the decision isn’t yours to make, Cisco. Singh already approved. We’re bonding them first thing tomorrow.”

     “Wait, what?! Does _literally no one else_ think this, y’know, might be a bad idea? The guy was ready to shut us down a couple hours ago!” Cisco’s arms were in the air. An actual child. Hartley didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this. “Why are we letting him be a handler?! And for Kilo! Isn’t Kilo, like, the entire reason he’s here? Why does anyone think this is a good idea?”

     “Because some of us are able to see the bigger picture here. Unlike you, which is fortunate for the rest of us.”

     “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean!”

     Hartley just stood and grabbed his phone, ready to make for the door. “Just be here on time, Cisco. I hope I can trust you with that.”

     “Hey, just wait a sec.” Hartley didn’t know why he listened; he’d undoubtedly regret it. “Seriously, I wanna know why. Like, I’m actually asking you. Which you should know I hate more than you do.” Cisco legitimately looked curious. Which was…unexpected, if nothing else at all. “C’mon, man. You love making me feel stupid when you know things I don’t.” Well, he wasn’t wrong about that.

     So he answered, barely bothering to turn. “Snart didn’t exactly intend to agree to all our terms and just leave without causing more problems for us on the outside.” What those problems were, Hartley didn’t know exactly. Neither of the men seemed willing to divulge that information to him, what had happened between them before he’d interrupted, but he could only guess that Snart had raised some argument of his own, if the standoff in the office held any meaning. “He needed to be convinced to let us keep doing this. He agreed, given we let him see what’s going on.” Which was true. No one on Snart’s end would be hurt – Hartley did rather like his sister as the mayor – and Snart had agreed to both the handler position, and to not leak his discoveries to the public. It was the truth, nevermind Hartley’s own ulterior motives.

     But Cisco rose an eyebrow. “And?  
     “And nothing. I told you what you wanted. Unless your intention is to trap me here for some unimaginable reason. In which case, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

     “Yeah, right,” he had the audacity to laugh, “we both know you’re just gonna go home and watch Kings for, what, the thousandth time cause Jack and Joseph are hot. Not like that’s a problem ‘cause hey, I ain’t arguing. But you’re doing the look again.”

     What? “The look?”

     “Yeah.”

     Hartley finally turned, arms crossed over his chest. “Care to enlighten me, Cisco?”

     “Just like…your face, dude.” Cisco made a vague gesture that Hartley could only assume was supposed to mean something. “The face you make when you think you know something I don’t.”

     “You do realize that’s all the time, Cisco.”

     “Hey! It’s not!” Cisco pouted. Actually pouted.

     “Why must you insist on being such a child?”

     “Why do you insist on being such a dick?”

     “I thought I requested some new nicknames, didn’t I?”

     “That…” Cisco’s face twisted in thought, “was technically not a nickname.”

     “Oh,” Hartley feigned surprise, eyebrows raised, “now that is a strong argument.”

     “Look, man. I just wanna know what’s going on, okay? Like, for all I know, you want them to fall in love with each other. Which, I mean, how weird would that be, am I right? A handler and a doll and oh my god you’re not calling me an idiot _is that what you’re going for?_ ”

     Well, there went keeping Cisco ignorant. Instead, he was looking properly scandalized. Even if he tried to deny it, Cisco would investigate at best, or pester him at worst. Not exactly desirable.

     “Dude! What the hell?! Handlers and dolls aren’t supposed to – _mmphh!”_ Hartley darted forward and managed to physically clamp his hand over Cisco’s lips. He wasn’t a fan of this particular tactic, but it would have to do, given the circumstances.

     “Do you want the entire world knowing what we’re doing?”

     Cisco’s eyes narrowed with a begrudging grunt of agreement; Hartley removed his hand. Another few moments of glaring ensued before Cisco ventured another word, apparently trying to communicate how angered he was by this development. Naturally, he was failing rather miserably, but Hartley saw no real reason to comment on it. However, when that look turned more skeptical, Hartley was, admittedly, slightly concerned. “When you said ‘we’…”

     “I was _not_ looking for a partner.”

     “Good.” Cisco turned back to his chair, presumably to continue tinkering the night away as Hartley began to consider the circumstances, the possible consequences and…

     “Although,” he watched as Cisco froze, “it might prove beneficial if we both work on this. You know I abhor the thought, but I would rather not find out whether or not I can always cover with Singh.” He was confident in his own abilities, but their operation housed more variables than even Hartley could keep track of. Cisco being aware of his plans without being involved was a particularly dangerous one – one that could potentially be eliminated by involving him from the start. The science, by Hartley’s estimations, should be more than worthwhile; getting Cisco invested shouldn’t prove all too difficult.

     “No!” he spun, a finger pointed toward Hartley. “Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. You shouldn’t even be doing this, so why would I help you, man? Just…nope.”

     “Oh, Cisquito,” Cisco scowled at the nickname, “what happened to the scientific curiosity you said to have so much of? Or are you finally admitting you can’t beat me there either?”

     “Okay, A) never call me that again. I’m serious, dude. And B) I got more scientific curiosity in my little toe than you’re gonna ever have in your whole body.” Not possible, but Cisco’s attempts at metaphor weren’t something to derail their conversation over. “And C) just, dude, that’s like, so wrong. On so many levels. I mean, I’m here to learn new things and all, but this? Making them fall in love? Even if you could get that to happen – ‘cause I dunno how you’d get Captain Cold to agree to that, and I mean in literally any universe – I ain’t messin’ with that. Plus, he’s gonna be Kilo’s third handler in less than as many months, and that’s already sketchy as hell.”

     “Except it’s not. For the same reason we aren’t _making_ them fall in love.” Hartley grinned, and Cisco did look intrigued, rolling his chair forward.

     “…Fine, I’m listening.”

* * *

 

      Len didn’t know what to make of any of it, really. Between the strange deal and the offer of a goddamn tour of the Dollhouse – wasn’t exactly a normal Tuesday, even for him. Especially when Barry tried to introduce himself to Len – as _Kilo_ , of all things, which apparently meant Len would be his handler, whatever the hell that meant, because no one had bothered to explain that part – before Rathaway had hauled Len toward before he could attempt a response. Not that he was about to admit to the scrawny scientist overpowering him.

     Although he would admit to downing a few drinks that evening before letting Mick know he was fine. Wasn’t surprising the whole ordeal had left him on edge.

     Regardless, he was back by the next morning. Which didn’t even surprise him anymore. And for reasons he still wasn’t entirely sure he understood, aside from the suspicions that Rathaway was insistent on speeding up this entire process. Just knew it had something to do with “the Chair” (Rathaway had actually called it that – sounded like something out of bad sci-fi) and Barry, which, almost embarrassingly, was enough to get his attention on its own.

     “Agent Snart.”

     “Rathaway.” The two other men in suits left his side. He’d comment on the fact he apparently needed an escort from the goddamn elevator, but he’d clearly left an impression. They had no reason to trust him, after all. Even if he couldn’t have done anything in that time. Or at least, nothing much.

     “Welcome to the first day on the job.”

     “Thanks, thrilled to be here.”

     “Y’know, maybe you should be. Captain Singh coulda put you in the Attic. Or told us to make you a doll. Or a ton of other things, if the boys above him wanted him to.” The other young man – the one Len had seen only briefly before being unceremoniously shoved into an elevator and shuttled to Singh’s office – strolled by, sucking on a lollipop.

     “Noted. And you are?”

     “Cisco Ramon. The guy who designed this beauty right here,” he answered, fondly tapping the device Len could only guess was the Chair. Sure it had all the sleek lines and simple efficiency of something off a starship, but Len wouldn’t call the thing beautiful. A scientist thing, apparently.

     Rathaway was busy rolling his eyes at the whole thing before getting Len’s attention. “Okay Agent Tall-Dark-and-Handsome,” Len raised an eyebrow at the name; Ramon was snickering none too secretly off to the side. “Simple procedure. Like we told you yesterday, your job as Kilo’s handler is to get him to and from assignments and away from any dangerous situations that arise on the job. To do that, he’ll be programmed to respond to you, regardless of the specifics of the assignment. What we’re doing here today is bonding him to you. I’ll think it’s safe to assume that science would go entirely over your head –“

     “So,” Ramon interrupted, having gotten a hold of himself, “long story short. Kilo’s gonna be the only one in the Chair. And all we need you to do is read this.” A slip of paper was handed toward him, four short lines printed on it – his coming first, then alternating between him and Barry. “Then I guess we’re giving you the rest of the grand tour.”

     “That’s it?” Len had spent the last evening learning the basic details from Rathaway. That the Dollhouse had found ways to imprint people – people like Barry, these…dolls, they were apparently called – with any uniquely designed personality anyone asked for. Which explained what Len had seen in his own findings, all the random comings and goings he’d noticed with certain individuals, but seemed too complex to a couple of pretty words to be so important.

     But both men nodded, Ramon popping the ‘p’ in his “yup”. The kid seemed strangely lighthearted for something like this. Rathaway seemed more the type Len would’ve expected, hiding something behind too-intelligent eyes. That wasn’t a look Len was ready to trust.

     Unfortunately, that didn’t matter, Rathaway and Ramon both about to turn back to their preparations.

     “Oh!” Ramon yelped, spinning toward Len a last time. “Just gonna let you know. You should hold his hand.” A glare. “I’m serious! It helps strengthen the connection, I swear.” Fantastic.

     Just over 5 minutes of Ramon and Rathaway typing and tinkering passed before the opposite door to their little lab opened, Barry led in by the dark-haired agent Len had seen the day before. Mardon. The man shot a glare at Len which was readily returned, but Barry’s eyes lit up almost immediately. “I remember you.”

     “Yeah, Kilo,” Ramon was at Barry’s side quickly, leading him toward the Chair, his voice disturbingly kind for someone who experimented on human beings for a living, “you saw him yesterday, right?”

     Barry nodded, even if something like confusion clouded his eyes. Len thought it best not to mention their other encounter in the alleyway. “Yeah…”

     “Good. Now, you ready for your treatment?”

     Barry nodded again, led to sit in the Chair, and Rathaway motioned for Len to step forward, locking gazes with Barry’s eyes, so much more green than the photos did justice. The Chair reclined, lavender light filling the room from the half-circle surrounding Barry’s head. Another signal from Rathaway and he reached for Barry’s hand, a warm sort of tingle shooting up through Len’s finger, different than anything he’d felt before. Just part of the procedure, it had to be. Couldn’t just be Barry; that’d be ridiculous.

     “Whenever you’re ready, Snart.” The script. Len couldn’t exactly back out now. Besides, the words were a promise he’d already made. Only difference was, now Barry was there to hear that promise. And _that_ was terrifying.

     _Everything’s going to be alright._

     _Now that you’re here._

_Do you trust me?_

_With my life._

          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Quick note, the final four lines are alternating between Len and Barry; Len has the first and third, and Barry has the second and fourth. I can't tell if it's clear, but I couldn't figure out a way to format it otherwise.
> 
> Just by the way, I do plan to finish this fic. I can't say how long I'll go between updates, cause that'll depend a lot on when I have motivation and whatnot. Hopefully won't be a whole year and change though. But fortunately, things should start happening a bit more now that everyone's starting to meet. Should be enough to get my lazy self writing. Also, I might ditch the chapter summaries, if anyone cares. Mine always sound awkward to me anyway.


End file.
